Seeking
by archeress of silverbow
Summary: A swan ship sails eastwards, and it's captain has a mission to find and bring home those who have been left behind. Sequel to "There's still a life in Arda."... Please read that first. (Mix up over Chapter Two, that is now REPOSTED correctly)
1. Point the prow Eastwards

**Well, here is the first chapter of my new story, sequel to "_There's still a life in Arda_". Please don't read this without reading _Arda_, as it will make little sense. The first part of this story runs parallel to the end of _Arda_, this chapter is set about a month(four weeks) before the end.  
**

**Thanks to _dreamingfifi_ in advance for any translations, and for validating that my idea was feasible. **

* * *

The figure stood in the hall, completely dwarfed by the room that surrounded him. But he wasn't marveling over the architecture that created the room, barely more than a domed roof with tree like pillars, yet at the same time the gaps were filled with solid white stone save for one small door, to which his back was turned. No, instead he gazed at the floor, studying it with a frown on his face. The smooth stone was a uniform creamy silver, with the exception of a ring of slabs laid to look as if they were plaited ropes. It was on the edge of that ring that his boot toes almost brushed, and what his eyes stared at.

Slowly, forehead uncreasing, he drew in a deep breath and straightened, bringing his shoulders up to a soldiers stance. Then, with such firmness it was clearly a deliberate act, he stepped over the pattern and into the circle.

"_Rušur_, why do you come here?"

A deep voice spoke from directly in front of him and the figure gave a deep bow** "**Elder King, I come to ask a boon of you and your kin."

"Far indeed has he come Manwë , from the eastern shore of Tol Eressëa ." It was a woman's voice who spoke and the figure bowed again.

A third voice, this one he could identify exactly "Why should you, one of the Doomed Noldor, wish to travel east again?"

Then the first voice spoke again, tinted with something close to amusement "For that is what you wish to do isn't it?"

He swallowed and nodded mutely

"Why do you wish to push the limits of our bounty?"

"I have heard that Ennor is at peace now, and I wish to see it in beauty rather than war-torn, which is all I have ever known."

He felt the stares of all the Valar rest on him at once, then the gaze lifted and he half heard them discussing it amongst themselves. Shaking he sat down in the circle, not trusting his legs to hold him up while he waited. Námo was right, he was pushing the limits in asking this. They would have full right to not only refuse him to travel east to Ennor but keep him imprisoned on Valinor. He clenched his hands tight and locked his jaw, refusing to show his terror at that thought. Finally, after what seemed an eternally long time, Námo spoke;

"We have come to our decision Orodrethion…"

He scrambled to his feet and came to his full height, waiting for the verdict.

* * *

"Artanáro?"

He turned and looked at the elf who stood at the other end of the quay. Recognition took a moment but then he strode away from the boat towards the Ellon.

The elf bit his lip slightly, the words coming out stuttered and stilted, yet still nearly tumbling over themselves "I…I…came to…to ask a favour of you Artanáro"

He smiled slightly, kindly "What is it?"

"Well, there are two, or maybe three…"

"What are _they_?" He stressed the pronoun,but kept his voice kind to dispel any threat of annoyance

The elf looked him straight in the eyes now "Seek my brother on your travels and if you find him, give him these." He held out three folded packs of parchment, each with a name written in Tengwar.

He nodded slowly, taking the parchments"I will seek your kinsman _Telvo_, and if I cannot return him to you then I will bring word of his fate."

A brief flash of surprise "How did you know?"

"Why else would I have seen a brown haired elleth with eyes that sparkled through their sadness leaving the Mahaxar before me?"

The ellon nodded slightly then touched his forehead with a hand** "**_Alámenë... Nai tielyar nauvar laicai az hwesta nauva canalyessë_"

He nodded, watching as the figure slipped through the growing crowd. Once he was out of sight the elf strode back to his boat, and up the gangplank with only the briefest pause. He'd said his goodbyes to his parents and friends earlier, it was no consequence if they came to see him leave. Kneeling briefly he stowed the letters in one of the packs, tucking them amongst many similar ones from those who still had kith and kin in Ennor. Then he rose to his feet, glancing up as one of Olwë's elves readied the sail for him. Giving the Teler a brief acknowledgement he stepped to the stern and braced his hands on the wheel. Then, without turning his head, he gave a single sharp nod.

There were two thumps as mooring ropes landed on the deck and in the same instant the ship began to move, sail filling with wind and her bow slicing through the waves with a soft _shh_ _shh_ sound. He felt the breeze tug at his long hair, blowing it around. And from the shore came voices, calling farewells. Then from a different diction came on lone voice… an elleth's. It was quiet in his ears, as though she had only whispered and the wind carried it

"Bring him back to me."

Now he did turn his head, and saw a figure standing out on the promontory of rock. Looking up at her he pressed a hand against his heart and gave the tiniest of bows before returning his attention to the water in front of him. He knew who she was, knew who she asked for, and knew he had more hopes riding on him than ever before

* * *

He lay on the deck that night, staring up at the stars and following Vingilótë's course homeward with his eyes. At one point, straining them, he thought he could see the figure standing on the deck with a bright jewel on his brow. But then the sight was gone and it became just another of the stars. Sighing, he rolled himself in the long cloak his father had given him, leant against one of the packs, shifting so it pillowed his head and drifted into sleep.

* * *

**Translations**

**Quenya**

**_Alámenë... Nai tielyar nauvar laicai az hwesta nauva canalyessë=_ Go with our blessings, May your paths be green and the breeze behind you (Old Valinorian dialect)**

**Valarian**

**Rušur= Fire**

******I also apologise in advance for the exceedingly long delay until the next chapter will be out, my Muse has bolted and I'm about to start University Coursework. Probably see you all in December  
**

**Good, not good? Review please.**


	2. Mithlond (Proper)

**This is the proper chapter... thank you to _Kaisaan Greenleaf_ for noticing that the editor (me) had mucked up by not saving as she went. If you read the last attempt at this, please disregard it**

* * *

He blinked, throwing up an arm to shield his eyes as the sun rose directly in front of him. Then he laughed at himself, for two weeks it had been the same situation every dawn, and he never got used to it. He bowed to Aren as she rose, then straightened and squinted. Against the light there were shadows, silhouettes. Slowly, as the ship drew closer they became clear.

"Mithlond" It was a sigh, part happiness, part relief, part longing and part annoyance. However, the latter was the least of those.

* * *

It took perhaps two hours until the ship passed between the two arms of rock that created the harbour and Mithlond was truly revealed to him. Unsurprisingly it hadn't changed all that much, save that most of the buildings on the cliff seemed to be uninhabited and there were only four swan-ships in total, in comparison to the twenty odd that had been here at the end of the Second Age.

_Did I make a mistake? __Artanis__ said that the Dominion of men had come, but I did not realise how few of the Eldar remained_.

"Mind the quay!"

The sharp shout recalled his attention to more immediate matters and he turned the wheel, bringing his craft alongside the wooden spur rather than bow first. C_í_rdan's elves were efficient and he threw was grateful his foster father had trained him to throw mooring ropes as a young elf. He looked out into the city and smiled at the sight of a grey-haired and bearded elf striding so fast it was close to a run

"Ereinion!

He strode over, put his hand on the rail of the motionless ship and vaulted down onto the wooden planks. Moments later he found himself enveloped in a tight embrace. Even as he returned it, he gave up his cares, relaxing into that familiar haven of safety. Many times in his fostering he'd relied on the hugs to pull him back from one brink or another. Yet before he could relax to much the hug was gone, and Cirdan his foster father became C_í_rdan, Lord of the Falathrim and Mithlond.

"Welcome High King."

He frowned "King of what?"

"Precisely, Precisely" C_í_rdan's voice wasn't bland, but he didn't recognise the inflection. As the older elf turned away Artanáro allowed himself the luxury of shaking his head, both in amusement and bemusement. Teleri...

* * *

"Hurry up youngling!"

He'd forgotten the speed with which the elf moved, something especially notable when climbing up a steep hill. C_í_rdan, with the precision of placing created by a lifetime around ships, never missed a step on the paved path while he gamely followed, trying no to show that his land legs had apparently stayed behind in Valinor. As they walked he looked about him, re-familiarising himself with the city. Although city was perhaps the wrong term for it, he wasn't sure of the correct one. Deep in thought only his quick, though rusty, warrior skills held his tingling and wobbly legs underneath him as he tripped over a stone.

By the time he spotted C_í_rdan's home he was exhausted, as much from the climb and keeping pace, as putting up a front of still holding authority. It scared him actually, to realise that none of the elves they had passed recognised him save as an elf who had apparently gone the wrong way across the sea. And he could see from their faces that they wondered what retribution the Valar would impose this time. As Círdan opened the door he was grateful to stumble into the house, slumping against the wall and closing his eyes. He forced himself to steady his breathing,only to realise his entire body was shaking like a leaf

"Rodnor? Are you well?"

He managed a nod, though he wasn't actually sure "Just tired and surprised" He amended that last thought "...shocked"

"That we are so few?"

He prised open his eyes and saw Cirdan looking thoughtful, but slightly wry at the same time "You were not."

The older elf led him along the corridor and pushed him into a chair before answering.

"I have seen all the ages of this land Rodnor, ages beyond the count of your people and men. My parents were one of the first twelve discovered by Enel on the shores of Cuiviénen. I saw the leaders go and return kings, I watched as Olwe led the others to Valinor, including many of my friends. And,yeay, I would have followed them, but Olmo bid me stay and stay I have." As he'd spoken Círdan's eyes seemed to mist over "The Sea calls, but not in the fashion it does to you, or even to Laegolas. It is the voice of a friend, a companion. To the sea...I am still little Nōwē who sported with the waves and tried to speak with fish."

He listened, somewhat disturbed by the tale "Will you never sail?... Valinor is wonderful, the shipwrights they..."

Cirdan stayed his babble with a raised hand "Of that I have no doubt, little king, but I do not long for what I have never known." The silver eyes met his own, gentle, loving "I will sail one day...When all the elves which remain now have gone, there will be one last group to carry West" Then they misted again "For who-else will the Last Ship accept as her captain?"

Artanáro sighed, he wouldn't get a better answer out of the shipwright, or any binding commitment. He just hoped the other one he'd come to fetch wouldn't be so stubborn.

* * *

That dream, unfortunately, was quickly dispelled over dinner. Up to that point there had been little talk between the two of them, aside from C_í_rdan bringing him up to date on the happenings. Some of it he had badgered out of elves who had sailed a few years earlier, others, such as Isildur's death, he had known nothing of. As Círdan told him the tale he found himself cursing both the man's stupidity and Artanis's isolationism which had meant she hadn't told him about this. That _nís_ was almost as much trouble as Oropher.

"So the idiot goes home to roost"

that earned him a stern glance "He was foolish, I grant that, but Elrond has dropped the use of that name, and I think you should follow suit."

"Elrond has more right than me to call him an idiot, he was a disgrace to Elros' line... He'll be happier in Valinor, not breaking his heart any more

_Círdan_'s head snapped up, and a fork fell on the table with a clatter "Who will?"

He spread his hands as if it were perfectly obvious "Elrond... Celebrían and others wait for him there, he'll be glad to come."

The Teler shook his head "You underestimate the value he holds on this new generation... You know Aragorn, Tar-Elessar they call him now, was his foster."

There seemed to be an emphasis there, but he didn't understand it "Artanis mentioned such a thing, but that is mere custom. He's fostered the heir of that line since Vardamir was of age..."

Círdan cut in again, snapping the sentence before he could finish "Aragorn lived in Imladris for 19 years, almost all his childhood. Elrond sees him as a son... And then there's the boy." As he tailed off with his voice, the silver haired elf stood up and Ereinion found himself flinching away from the anger in those eyes as Círdan lent over to the table towards him "Don't be a fool, little one, by trying to mend what isn't broken." Then, just as suddenly, the older elf drew away, becoming inscrutable and his tone somewhere between bland and fatherly "You're tired Rodnor, go to bed."

He obeyed, shaken to his core by that reaction. He'd never seen Círdan like that, never. But neither had the old elf ever been so open with him. It was a web of contradiction, spouting about his childhood one moment, then shut as a clamshell the next. To think he'd hoped the elf would help him convince Elrond. He carried on walking away from the dining hall, shaking his head as he did so.

* * *

**Translations**

**Quenya**

**_nís_ = Woman.**

**Right, that's all fixed, now if anyone wants to review they may.  
**


	3. The Beginning

**Thanks to _Kaisaan Greenleaf_ and _Glory Bee_. Well, it's not quite December, but I needed some reviews to keep me sane.**

**Enjoy**

* * *

Dawn still honeyed the sea when he pushed his horse into an easy trot on the road away from Mithlond, pointing the bay's nose inland, towards the distance, just visible rises that marked the tower hills. He sighed. And wished his training in long distance riding didn't warn him against driving the gelding into a full gallop. It was what he wanted to do, to let loose his temper in a burst of wild and reckless behavior that would shock any elves that watched. He shook his head, an annoyed twitch like a horse shaking off a fly or a dog with water in his eyes.

* * *

The horse tossed its head again and he pushed it on to a firmer trot, determined to break its bad manners. For two days they'd been traveling, and even at trot the daft creature kept tossing its head. His arms ached, and his temper was at the end of its frayed length. He stet his jaw, wishing he had actually shouted at Círdan the morning when he'd left. But his old sense of courtesy had stopped him. That and the fact that two of Círdan's elves were nearby and he didn't want to make a scene.

"Why, why, why... why." It slipped from his lips, all his heart was feeling. Why was Cirdan against him? why had all the elves gone?, why was he even here? Some foolish promises and a belief that his lieutenant would follow him. All pointless. In a moment of indecision he pulled the gelding to a halt on the road. It would be easy, so easy, to turn around and go back, to make his peace and sail to the Undying Lands. His hand twitched on the reins. Then, unbidden, came his last sight of Valinor; a woman, standing on the top of a cliff, her hair bound tight to her back even as her dress lapped slightly in the breeze.

He pushed the gelding on more gently, rubbing his eyes. No, he had to go on. Life wouldn't be worth living there if he went back. Not because he came back without them but because he didn't even try. Slowly he sat up straighter, forcing himself to feel the same self esteem that had buoyed him through being king. If he trusted himself everything would be better. As if sensing his thoughts the gelding collected itself and when into a classy parade prance for a short distance. He patted it absentmindedly, relaxing his hold on the reins, and returned his gaze outward, towards those hills.

* * *

As dusk fell he swung down from the saddle and, having un-tacked and pegged the horse on a picket, made a rough camp. His muscles ached as he sat down on his cloak, legs whimpering protests. That however was pittance compared to the way his whole body had complained the evening before. He watched the flames, keeping his ears sharp even as most of his mind dosed, lulled by the dance.

A stamped hoof, not of his gelding, a footstep cracking dray grass

He rose to his feet, turning his back to the fire and blinking to regain his night eyes as he raised his sword. Two figures came forwards, one four- legged, the other on two.

"Who goes there?"

"A fellow traveler who is tired" a soft, gentle, male voice answered

He waited, trying to pick out features on the approaching figure.

It, he, spoke again "Might I share your fire?"

Deciding that kindness was the better part of valor Artanáro stepped around slightly and gestured with his arm "Two are better than one, be welcome."

The figure bowed and moved pointedly around to the other side of the fire, effectively hiding all but his chin and eyes through the flames.

Artanáro sighed and sat down, mechanically beginning to sharpen his sword with long strokes of the stone.

"You expect trouble?"

He looked up meeting inscrutable eyes "I know not what to expect, or really where I am headed, beyond the Shire."

"The Shire? You have business with the halflings, Elda?"

"I have letters from their friends, in Valinor"

There was a sharp intake of breath, and something like a sob. The voice, when it came again, was shaky "You sailed East?"

He said nothing more, but almost felt like boasting that he'd had the Valar's blessing on his venture. An uneasy silence settled over them, broken by the horses and the crack of a log as it burned. In the flash he looked over at his companion, "And you? Whither are you bound?"

"Where I please..."

Yet another undertone was there, and again, he couldn't detect its meaning. Had he lost his ear after so long dwelling in Valinor having nothing to do with others intentions?

A noise brought him out of his thoughts "Pardon?"

The stranger spoke again, but he understood nothing save that it sounded vaguely, and very vaguely, like Adûnaic.

"Speak not that traitor's tongue to me"

"Traitor's?"

He sensed a frown under the hood and his answer came out as a bitter growl "Aye, Ar-Pharazôn and the rest."

"Tis not Adûnaic .. It's _Annúnaid_**" **Now there was almost a laugh or a smile with the words

As perplexed as he was becoming he felt his temper grow sour "Western Tongue?"

"Descended from Adûnaic"

Then without another word, his companion fell silent, a silence that would not be broken. Without even trying he could tell from the set of the shoulders that chatter was over.

Sighing he turned away and rolled up in his cloak, using it as both mattress and blanket, pillowing his head on the saddle.

* * *

The bothersome silence continued all through the next morning, neither communicating. It unnerved him, almost as much as the fact his companion barely seemed to acknowledge that he existed, pausing a few moment before accepting the portion of food that was left by the fire. Independent of each other they prepared for the journey, packing saddlebags and restraining a horse.

It was only after he'd swung into the saddle and sent the gelding inland, that, on hearing hooves behind him, Artanáro looked around. The stranger followed him, his horse covering the ground at a fluid amble. He checked his own horse's trot and waited for the other to catch up before speaking

"You are coming with me?" His companion seemed to ignore that too. "Why?" It came out snappish, irritated by the lack of thanks, alongside mistrust and confusion.

"Because if I don't you're liable to get into trouble from here on in"

He bridled now, feeling his back stiffen "You seem very certain."

The other seemed to ignore the danger signals "No-one between here and Rivendell speaks anything but Westron... The Western Tongue. Without the language you'd stick out as a foreigner and I'd wager there are still some types who would use a knife in the dark for their own ends."

He barely repressed a shiver, and distracted himself by noticing that a hand had been drawn off the other horse's reins, clearly counting down points as they were spoken.

"Second, I know Círdan was probably generous with food, but what he gave won't last you to Rivendell, and you won't get charity, there aren't many rich families around here. Thirdly." Suddenly a sharp glance shot under the hood, almost scorching him "I'm presuming you have no coin?"

"I have coin" He pulled his gaze away, and forced his fingers to not twitch to where the purse was kept. The stranger laughed

"I'm no highway robber, young one... I'm just trying to keep you safe"

"Not young" it came through gritted teeth as he looked ahead "I was born in Nargothrond before Fingolfin fell"

A soft dry chuckle was his only answer.

* * *

The sun had set and camp was formed before the subject was raised again. He silently checked the sharpness of his blade again, then sheathed it, longing for the feel of Aiglos resting at his side or across his knees, as it had for so many evenings. Then, apparently accidentally, he let his eyes wander to his companion, only to find them met with a gaze so blank it could have been marble.

Slowly a hand extended in a slightly imperious manner, its fingers twitching in a beckoning moment. Artanáro sighed and pulled out his purse, handing it over reluctantly. The stranger fetched a bowl from his own saddle bags, yet,the elf noticed that he was making a definite effort that the purse could always be in his, it's owners, eye-line. Obviously a trick of security. When the other returned he tipped the purse over into the bowl and placed it in the light of the flames, looking over the coins, probing some of them. Then the hooded head lifted, .

"I hope this isn't all you have?"

Artanáro tensed, grasping his sword hilt and bracing his muscles for a quick draw "What do you mean by that?"

The man flicked at one of the coins with a finger "Valinorian silvers? They might serve over the sea but you'd be thrown out of town if you tried to use them here." The stranger pushed bowl and pouch over, allowing him to refill it. As he did so he watched his companion out of one eye. The other's gaze _seemed_ lowered, but he sensed he was being watched intently all the same. No, not watched, but studied... He jerked his gaze up, trying to meet those eyes that came from under the cloak. But with all the fluidity of rippling water the man on the other side of the fire shifted his gaze away. Awkward, Artanáro finished reloading his pouch and slipped it back between the pair of tunics, tying it to the inside one for now.

The harsh sound startled him and he jumped "What?"

The other man made a hushing gesture with one hand, then tapped his lips, "Repeat it..." the sounds came again and he distinguished something like words.

Slowly, hating the way his voice stumbled and grated on an unfamiliar sound, he tried.

More slowly, his companion spoke again, this time seeming to listen more as he echoed. He was so wrapped up trying to get his tongue around the sounds, like hooking an oat out of his teeth, that he almost missed quiet words.

"A good baritone."

Now that made his ears twitch like a whistled hound... But he made no comment, schooling his expression to still ignorance before changing the subject.

"You challenge my coin... so what have you?"

A noise, almost a laugh, escaped from the figure on the other side, who without a word up-turned his coin pouch onto the plate and pushed it so they could both see.

Slowly Artanáro smiled, here were stamps he recognised; the tree, stars and crown of Gondor, impressed into silver and copper. But there were few. He raised a brow in unspoken question.

"I barter mostly, never stay long in one place... coin's little use" He heard the other draw closer, turning the coins gently "I can see you recognise their make, so you've been here before, now look close" he flicked the coins so the heads were uppermost. There were three styles there, two he could just read the Tengwa, the other was a similar style but impossible.

"Ecthelion, Denethor... and even an Elessar, that'll stand in Bree if there's not enough of the north." The man had pointed each head out as he spoke, but seemed to address the last to himself, flipping the coin back to the tree side, and studying it for a moment. Then he fished in the coins, pulling out some slightly different ones, all silver, and passed them over.

"Here, if we are parted, guard these well, you'll need accepted coins if you're to get anywhere"

Artanáro took them with good grace and looked up sharply, catching a glimpse of a classically elven face and long black hair. Just as quickly the glimpse was gone.

* * *

He sat first watch that night, spending almost half his time watching the apparently sleeping figure on the other side of the fire. His companion acted like a mortal, like one of the Edain. But something didn't rub true. He sighed and turned outward again, part of his mind still hunting the misfit piece of knowledge. But as hard as he looked, it ran faster. Finding one print on this trail only seemed to make the others more invisible.

Finally he turned around, hoping to catch the other off-gaurd "We'll sleep in the peace of the Shire tomorrow"

What he heard wasn't really an answer

"Nowhere has peace for me."

* * *

**Translations**

**Sindarin**

**___Annúnaid_= Westron_  
_**

**Reviews please, **

**What do you like? what have I muddled up? What are your guesses of the stranger's identity?**


	4. The Shire

**Thanks to _Kaisaan Greenleaf_, _Glory Bee_ and _Lia Whyteleaf_ for reviewing.**

**Here is the next chapter probably until December as I'm about to disappear under coursework again.**

**Anything spoken but in italics is being translated by our mysterious friend into an elven tongue for Gil-Galad, from the Common used by the hobbits.**

**Enjoy**

* * *

They were being watched. It wasn't a vicious watch, like the orcs the night before his final battle, when his skin had twitched like a horse with a fly. But it was there and it took him concentration to not react. Instead he stretched forward and touched his companion's arm. The elf, for he was certain that was what he was, half flicked a glance round, but gestured him to remain still. He did his best, only to ruin the attempt by jumping out of his skin as his companion shouted something the that strange tongue.

* * *

"Hoy Bounder, we seek permission..."

He let the call ring out and waited patiently, turning his head surreptitiously to spy any approach. After a short while one of the halflings came trotting up, a stave in his hand. To some it would have looked foolish but he saw the practiced grip of the hobbit's hand and knew that it would actually be a force to be reckoned with. In deference to that he swung out of the saddle, and gestured to the other elf to back his horse off slightly. Then, conveying all the respect he could, he dropped so they were of a more equal height and placed his short belt dagger on the ground with it's hilt towards the hobbit

"What business have you here Masters?" The tone was wary, but no unduly so.

He gave an awkward bow "We seek to enter your lands, my companion has letters from Master Frodo of Bag-End to his friends, Samwise Gamgee; Mayor of the Shire, Peregrin Took; Thain and Meriadoc Brandybuck; Master of Buckland."

The hobbit glanced between them, clearly sizing them up, "Elessar said no Big Folk were to cross the borders."

He tried not to let dismay show, for he had dearly longed to see the land that now stretched away from him "Then might we give the messages to you, to be passed on?"

The hobbit seemed to ignore him, jerking his head at the other elf "Did he know Frodo?"

He repeated the question in Sindarin, and translated the answer, feeling slightly foolish as he stumbled around what various Haradic translators in Dol Amroth had called the pronoun problem "I, he, often spoke with him and found his views most interesting, he is a very cultured hobbit."

The bounder tilted his head from side to side "He's well?"

Again he translated both sides "He and his Uncle Bilbo both enjoy good health in the lands across the sea." He let out a breath when he had finished, knowing he had slightly altered his companion's original words to make them more comprehensible. How would a hobbit understand the true meaning of Valinor, and for them it wouldn't be the undying lands...

The hobbit seemed to think for a long moment, chewing his lip in a meditative fashion and glancing between the two of them. After a moment he gave a single whistle, long and clear, then stared at them.

"You... stay... here, understand?"

He nodded, sensing the importance of the rule by the slowness of the speech and quickly translated for his companion's benefit.

* * *

Artanáro felt like a dumb thing, as his until now almost silent companion conversed in that rough language with the hobbit march-warden. When the strange one spoke to him in Sindarin he replied in the same language, gradually gaining the idea that the hobbit asked questions and that occasionally he was needed for the answers, mostly those regarding Frodo, he presumed. But it felt unnatural, being on the edge of a conversation and being unable to join in,he who had always involved himself whether he was of age or not. It had infuriated Cirdan sometimes, so much that the elf had taken to using an obscure dialect of old Telerian to unsettle him.

A sharp tug on his sleeve made him look down "What?"

His still hooded companion sighed and glanced warily over his shoulder towards the border "From now on be more careful which tongue you use."

He was going to be flippant, but the sheer nerves in the voice made him listen

"All folk are wary of things they do not understand, it means danger for us. If you must speak attempt Common, or address me in Sindarin... not this." There was a crack on the last two words, as if it cost him to say them and, abruptly, the other moved away to where the border was, kneeling back down, clearly intending to wait for the hobbit.

Artanáro frowned to himself, hadn't they been speaking in Sindarin the whole time, save for those lessons? He understood it perfectly, so it couldn't be anything else except...

He snapped his mouth shut just before the word escaped and shot his companion a glance. Curiouser and curiouser, as Bilbo had been want to say, curiouser and curiouser indeed.

* * *

The horses had stretched their heads to graze by the time the hobbit came back. He knew it was slightly wrong, but they could pass the time that way, as he could watching them and his companion. He was Noldor, no doubt of it, though whether he was full-blood or with some Sindar wasn't clear. Nor did it particularly matter to him, it never had come to think of it, unlike one or two of the others.

"Sir"

He turned his head to see the same hobbit as before

The mayor, the Thain and the Master of Buckland all invite you onto their lands, on the condition you make no trouble" The hobbit pushed the knife back towards him, but you keep your weapons

He frowned "The King?

"Allows The Shire to be ruled as a separate dominion under his protection, if he quibbles tell him they said you could come. The hobbit was grinning, and winked at him, clearly enjoying being able to tweak the rules.

He bowed from his kneeling "thank you."

Then he stood up "Which way to Hobbiton?"

The bounder held out a hand "One of the runners will guide you, they need extra hands up there anyway for the party... Can you play at all?"

He shook it, trying to hide the trembling in his body "N..no I'm ..afraid I can't."

The hobbit shrugged "Pity" Then he turned away, calling out "Hi' there Toby, you might make yourself useful and show these guests to Hobbiton.

He sighed with relief, persuaded his gelding to release the last few strands of grass it held and started to climb into the saddle. Then he paused, waiting until the hobbit lad had caught up, and legged him up to ride in front on his saddle. Settling in the saddle he sent the horse on, gesturing for his companion, who ever he might be, to follow.

* * *

Artanáro watched as they rode along, marvelling at what he could see, and puzzled by what he couldn't. Sending his horse closer to his companion he called a question, officially to their guide.

"Where do they live, I see no houses"

The hobbit listened to the translation and smiled over at him, pointing to one of the hills as he spoke,

"He says they live in smails, and that we are riding right past them." There was a smile visible on the mostly hooded face that translated, but it wasn't mocking.

Now he looked around he understood what the rings of colour he had seen were... Doors. They lived in the hills.

The thought of being underground made him shiver slightly, but then he paused and studied one of the smials, as best he could from the too high place of his head in this land. Lots of window holes, all neatly framed, looked into rooms. The homes would not be dark save at night, when all was dark anyway. He smiled, noting the profusion of growing things, yes Bilbo had talked of this, living amongst the green. And Frodo too, he whose best friend had been a gardener.

His gelding jogged slightly, catching up without really trying. Slowly he took a deep breath. There was the tang of autumn in the air, but still some flowers lingered. It reminded him of that last summer in Lindon before Annatar had come to the jewel smiths, one last echo of peace. As children ran forward, clambering gates to see them, he realised it was more than that. This was a land that had barely known fear, it's people lived out their lives within their world, untroubled by much of the darkness. And what darkness there had been was dispelled by heroic tales, and beauty. For a brief moment he envied them, wishing he had been a hobbit, not an elf, to live in such tranquility. But then he remembered when Olórin had shown him memories, seeing Frodo just after the ring was destroyed. The war had broken the little hero, had dug deep wounds in every hobbit involved, perhaps deeper than any other race caught up in the war. It seemed that in any day and age there was a price that would be paid for innocence, as unfair as it seemed. As if echoing his thoughts he saw his companion avert his eyes from a pair of hobbits, clearly still in the flush of new marriage. But given the way a hand twitched towards its owners head he guessed it was as much the, actually tuneful, serenading that the husband-hobbit was doing, that wounded the other rider. But that made no sense...

He shook his head and gave up following that trail, returning his gaze to the land surrounding him. Briefly he glanced up at the sun, realising they must have traveled quite a distance he'd been thinking, for it seemed to have significantly shifted. Rubbing the glare out of his eyes he blinked rapidly, only for that to shift into a stare of disbelief.

A mallorn? Here? It didn't make sense. He growled slightly, his good humor evaporated by shock and too many puzzles. A hand brushed his arm, but when he looked he realised the correction must have been delivered absentmindedly, for his companion also stared at the tree, though his gaze was more entranced than confused.

"Glory"

He shot his companion a look but abruptly the other rider jerked his gaze away, switching languages and avidly questioning the hobbit in that odd language they used nowadays. As the answers came he was grateful that they were translated to Sindarin, as he had begun to wonder about the history.

"_Where that tree is another used to stand, it was pulled down by Lotho, Bilbo's cousin of some sort,_ a wry grin suggested that his companion had condensed the hobbit's long-winded explanation of family trees when he said that.

"_When Mayor Gamgee, as he is now, returned from going to all those faraway places, he brought a small silver box with him. Only fit for a ..._mathom_, thought I." _He noticed a slight hesitation before the strange word, as though the other elf tripped over it_ "But he kept it, and like the good gardener that he was planted whatever was inside it where old Party Tree once stood. I swear within about a month that tree was near full grown, never seen anything like it in my life_"

Toby appeared fit to continue in that vein of astonishment for quite some time, only to be interrupted by another question

"_Afar as I know he still has the box, won't take us long to get there either now._" The hobbit pointed forward and Artanáro followed his finger "_There's Bag-End yonder, in the top of that big hill_."

He repressed a smile, for said 'big' hill seemed ordinary to him, even though they were on level ground nearly at its base. But, like with all things, it seemed a matter of perspective and for once, despite his frayed manners, he was going to hold his tongue and surrender. Instead he looked closer to home, at the field just beneath Bag-End and on the other side of the hedge to them. Hobbits tugged on ropes and grappled with poles laughing all the time and cheering whenever one did as it was supposed to. Surprisingly heartened he joined in, dropping the reins to clap as a large banner on two long poles was walked upright without a wobble. As a group the hobbits turned to stare at him and he looked away, finding himself blushing furiously with embarrassment. There was a soft chuckle from the hobbit who guided them and his companion translated the words that followed, reaching over to briefly grasp his shoulder and allowing a rare view of those grey eyes, which seemed both sorrow shadowed and joyous at the same time.

"Don't mind, you did the right thing."

* * *

"Mayor Gamgee, Mistress Rose."

He listened as the hobbit banged on the door, feeling greater trepidation as time slipped by. What was he doing here? Why had he followed that camp-fire and then attached himself to this Noldor.

_Because I've seen too many green saplings cut due to inexperience... _

He shut his eyes briefly, then forced them open, determined not to loose himself in any sort of past. Instead he shot a glance sideways, amending his previous comment for the elf was clearly an adult, and very experienced. Still he wondered who he was and instinctively flicked his eyes up to the temple braids. It was something he'd avoided doing, knowing that the automatic reciprocation would lead to discoveries he wasn't ready for the younger elf to have. Now he tapped into his old knowledge, reading the plaits and twists like the family tree they were. Sure enough, there were the Nargothrond patterns, matching what had been said about his birth place.

Sensing a shift of interest he looked away, both to avoid eye contact and to hide what he had discovered. Just then the door opened and he looked up, meeting the eyes of a plump and jolly hobbit, who beckoned with both arms to them, while calling over his shoulder.

"Hi Frodo-lad, come show these good fellows where they may keep their horses."

Following good courtesy he shoved his horse's nose away from the bush nearest the fence, then opened the gate and entered to garden, gesturing that the other should follow. When they reached the bottom of the door steps he bowed deeply

"Mayor Gamgee, I am honoured that you would treat us in this manner, by bending the King's law

"Mayor Thain and Master are the kings here thank you very much." Came another voice, carrying from inside and a second, taller hobbit walked out to stand beside the Mayor. This was obviously either the Thain or the Master of Buckland, though at the precise moment he could not decide which, and was distracted by a slight cough from his companion. Making his excuses he slipped back down the path and took his horse's reins, following the young hobbit, clearly Samwise's son, to a copse of trees and grass just down the hill. Then the lad turned to face him

"If they don't wander, they can stay here."

He repeated it for the other elf's benefit, then answered the hobbit "If we tell them to stay, they will"

He seemed satisfied by that, and waited while they unsaddled and unbridled the horses.

Arms full of tack he looked over at the lad "would your parents mind if we put this in the house, I'd rather not leave it laying about."

Now the boy was laughing, his tone so carefree that he found his own lips twitching in reply. Aside from the hair, which was as jet back as his own, he found himself thinking of another similar boy, now a man and he hated his mind for adding the amendment _if he is still alive_, who had laughed just like that for many summer days.

It slipped out unbidden_"Ambarussayo" _

His companion looked at him, frowning and he snapped his mouth shut, making a point of staring at the saddlebags the other carried "Don't forget what you carry there, it is why we came here after all."

The other elf flinched, wounded look appearing in his eyes.

He could have slapped himself, had his arms not been full. He, who tried to erase the past from his mind, sounding just as arrogant as his father and second younger brother. Instead he shuddered, and began to walk back to Bag-End.

* * *

Samwise and two other hobbits greeted them at the gate, escorting them in and ensconcing them by the fire in two rather small chairs. But he wasn't going to complain, and instead looked around. As spruced and formal as it tried to be it was obvious that this was still a home, there was a smoothness and warmth to it that an official building never had. He smiled slightly, accepting the cup and cradling it in his hands, letting the warmth and friendliness make a determined effort to drive away the bone chill he felt.

Then, when the three hobbits were settled, he spoke;

"I am not the one who carries the news you wish to hear, but my friend speaks none of your tongue, so I am willing to act as translator."

They nodded and one of them, the younger of the three, turned to his travelling companion.

"Who are you?"

"I am Ereinion"

He nearly fell out of his chair, and not because the answer was spoken in something passable as Common. Forcing himself to get a grip, as one of his _adan_ friends termed it, he blanked his face, glad to see that the hobbits knew nothing connecting that name. Obviously they knew him as Gil-Galad. Carefully his companion shifted the saddlebag he'd set on his lap, extracting a handful of folded pieces of paper and holding them out. With a sigh he realised he'd have to translate the addressees, to make sure they were given the correct ones. But it was quick work, those three needed happening to be on top.

As the hobbits read he watched them, noting small details. Merry, who wore a green shirt with a russet waistcoat, with trim that tugged his memory like a fish hook. Pippin, who seemed both the youngest, and yet, when named as Thain in his letter subtitle, looked every inch the part. And Samwise, Sam, who wept over his letter as if Frodo was his brother as well as his Master.

Briefly he pressed a hand to his eyes and forehead, blinking, then lowered it and forced himself to wait. Eventually Sam lifted his head, but looked to Ereinion, clearly accepting that _he_ was solely a translator.

"Thank you Sir", might we do anything in return

Ereinion's reply startled him and he nearly stammered on the translation "Nay, Master Hobbit, for me alone no... " Grey eyes, Arafinwë s eyes, rested on him, urging him on "But our guide told us something of the Mallorn tree and we would like to hear the rest."

"Ah" Artanáro watched as Sam settled back in his chair, beginning to speak, almost immediately the translation slid from his companion's mouth _"Now you must understand I'm no tale teller like one of your elves, or Mr Frodo... Lady Galadriel gave me a little silver box when we left her wood, __filled with soil and one little nut. When we was..._" He chuckled slightly, recognising that his companion was sacrificing grammer for narrative style in translation and gestured Sam on ._..back, and all them nasty fellows were gone, the Shire was ruined, Party Tree..._

"_That's the one down on the green, we called it that after the famour Birthday Party"_That was one of the others, _Pippin? _

"_...was gone. I planted the little nut that was in the box where it had stood, an that tree just grew, as if it was making up for lost time, it had a little soil about its roots, as did all the new trees. The rest"_ and Sam gave a depreciating smile "_I threw to the winds to carry all over the Shire."_

He nodded "It was well done" and listened to the translation grate its way out of his companion's throat. Then he asked the question he knew the other had been begging him to ask

"Might we see the box?"

There was a soft patter of feet and a blonde haired maid trotted into the room, cradling something in her hands. She offered it to him, but he waved it off and directed her to his companion.

The other took it, revealing his fine fingers, slightly rough on the tips. Artanáro watched with amusement and intrigue as he studied it, tilting it to catch the light. Then, suddenly, he stopped and seemed to shrink, curling up in the chair. The cloaked shoulders shook and he heard noises of concern from the hobbits even as he reached over to comfort. But his companion flinched away, then stood up as best he could and moved over to the window, setting the box on a table as he passed.

Without the need for words they all let him be, Pippin promptly attempting to explain, with much gesturing, what would be going on in the evening.

* * *

The copse was quiet in the dark, the leaves muting the sounds of the party. He sad on the ground, back against a trunk, not noticing the cold that began to seep in his legs.

_I should never have left the shore, I should never have even left the south, I should have taken my chances with the others._

He knew that at least one was dead, that much had come through gossip and whispers. The hobbits, Peregrin especially, could probably tell him more. But he feared to know, did not want to add scars to his heart. There were too many there already.

* * *

He saw him, sitting on the very edge of the group, barely there at all. The party should have been cheerful, and indeed it had been so. But after that glance it seemed as if everything was muted. Oh his traveling companion was smiling, no doubt about it, but his eyes were glassy, not really seeing, and tears splashed out onto his cloak from under the hood.

* * *

**Translation**

**Quenya**

**_Ambarussayo_= Little Copper-top **

**Reviews please...**


	5. Bree and Before

**Well I promised an update in December, and here it is, three days late. But despite high water and parents, it's here**

**Thanks to all who reviewed**

* * *

Silence, silence so thick he felt he could put out a hand and touch it. It wouldn't be soft and movable like a feather pillow, this was more like a rock. And they rode down the road enveloped by it. Oh there was still plenty of sound, the leather of the tack moving slightly, the clank of a stirrup, birds singing and trees swooshing in the wind, but between the two travelers there was only silence. It irked him, making his back itch, so much so that finally he broke it.

"Why do you not speak?"

The other elf, still hooded, didn't even turn his head "There is nothing to speak of, Ereinion."

He made careful note of the slight pause before his name, as if the speaker thought before using it "What did you think of the Hobbits then?"

Bland, emotionless as ever, was the answer "They are lucky, to be so carefree in a world that has suffered so much, though it has left its marks."

Oh?" He raised a quizzical eyebrow, forgetting that his companion never looked at him.

"Did you ever catch any of the trio off guard in the celebrations? There was just a glimpse of a shadow under their eyes, only one who has lived the horrors of war has that look."

Artanáro paused, thinking back to what he had seen, and nodded "Yes, I know what you mean."

The other elf carried on regardless "You hold it too, though you hide it better than they did." Then his voice dropped even beyond elven hearing, though Artanáro thought he heard the word 'same'.

The silence settled again, remaining for several more miles. But eventually he thought of another question, hoping to probe more out of his companion.

"Where are we headed?"

"A place called Bree, according to Sam's maps, we should be there tomorrow."

"You've been there?"

No, I have not been far from the sea for many a year, youngone, such is my blood and my fate

So he was part Teler then, or sea called Sindar, at least in part. He stored that for future reference, fianaly deciding to ask what bothered him most

"What is your name?"

A pause, several heartbeats long "Falathrandir"

Well, it was a name, and he supposed he'd asked for a rebuff. An epesse was better than nothing. He sighed and for once, understood the desirability of silence.

* * *

Falathrandir schooled his face to stillness as they rode along, keeping his eyes directly ahead on the look out for rough patches. The oacasional fluttering of birds suggested that there were songs apleantly pouring around his ears, songs which he might otherwise have attempted to capture and use. But today he was deaf, his heart refusing to listen and stopping his hopeful ears. Had he still been able to weep, he might have done, bujt his eyes had run out of tears long ago, leaving only his heart crying. It was easier that way, to be awy from people and sperate from the world unless he chose otherwise. Life was simple when it was just him alone, but even his simple never corresponded to ordinary simple. He was too many things, too many threads woven together and twisted into knots. Nothing was simple, nothing eve would, ever could be simple for him. He'd been through too much.

Though the younger elf- Arafinwë's great-grandson, had shadowed eyes, he still envied him. As annoying as his nativity, though it was completely true gave him some leniency, there was a light him those eyes that his own had long since lost,

He forced himself to keep his eyes open, curling his left hand tight so the short nails dug into his scarred palm. It hurt, as his heart and fea hurt. He had damned himself to this fate, he could not whine and complain as his younger brothers had once done when the squabbled. But he'd never realised the enormity of what they were doing, none of them had, save possibly the smallest one. Then he pulled a wry face at his own thoughts; they'd all known exactly what they were doing, the risk they were running, he couldn't make excuses to himself.

"Are you well?"

He gave a curt nod, still unwilling to speak. His tongue was fluent, like all his kind, but it would be all to easy for an accent to slip in. And he couldn't do that to the young one, not yet anyway, if he did at all. They had, after all only known each other for matter of days, a short enough time-span for men, but nothing to Elves.

* * *

"I wondered why the saddlebags bulged so."

Even his silent companion laughed as they peered in. The cords which stitched the leather were nearly snapping under the strain.

They know we'll reach Bri in a few days, this would last weeks and weeks if it did not spoil, there was no need to give so much."

If I have judged the Hobbits aright this.." there was an expansive gesture to the other saddlebag "is just, _just_ barely enough to sustain them on such a journey, if it were not made under duress.

Artanáro raised an eyebrow "You are quite a scholar of people"

"It is my life"

He sighed, wishing he'd said something else as the olther elf lapsed back into silence, instead picking at some of the food and examining it. It didn't take long for him to be completely confused. This wasn't cram or ordinary travel food. It seemed more to be entire meals, almost normal, packed up in cloths. Bread cheese, fruit, sweet things

"Pass me that little pack would you?"

Surprised but obedient he passed over the white wrapped bundle, watching as the other elf unwrapped it, noting a tremble of the fingers.

"Yes." The delight in that one word was the most good emotion he'd heard from his companion so far. Curious he lent over.

"Er, what exactly are they?"

The other elf paused with one of the nuts in his hand, then almost seemed to poke the tip of his tongue out before sighing "Bah, there is no name for them in either elven tongue or Adunaic that I can think of." There was a long moment of silence, broken to Artanáro's ears by half mutters

Finally the other elf spoke again, the closet I can get is this "Wulnet"

He nodded "Are they good?"

I haven't eaten them in years, not since" the moth snapped shut on a nut and the rest came out mumbled "never mind"

Artanáro nearly rolled his eyes but settled for sighing and fishing out some bread and cheese from the satchel

"We shall feast as they did at high summer in Valinor for a while, thank you Halflings."

* * *

Falathrandir lowered his hand from his mouth, looking at his companion then down at the walnut in his hand. Suddenly they tasted bitter and metallic in his mouth, taking an effort to swallow what was already being chewed. He replaced the nut and tied the bundle in the same kerchief not it had been in before, resisting the urge to throw them far away, knowing it would only cause comment

"When you've finished that, we will carry on our journey." His voice held an icy hint of pain, but he didn't stay still long enough to see the other elf's reaction and would have been surprised if he had.

* * *

It was an easy road, long and smooth, well worn by traveling parties though as usual with the occasional deep rut from an overloaded cart. As expected they saw no other travelers. Well it seemed that _Falathrandir_ expected it, but he had still had to ask why

"Few places to travel to now, or from. The Havens' folk do not often go eastward, and there are fewer and fewer to come the other way" The last was said with a bitter smile but he saw Falathrandir's's eyes flick back towards the old forest, a ghost of longing there. He slowed his horse

"Do you want to go back there, to seek Ben-Adar"

A sharp negative from the head, and the chestnut broke into a rough canter off one stride.

He caught himself between growling and sighing, frankly aware he'd done too much of both these past five days, and gave chase

"Don't run away"

The other elf glared at him, his hood falling slightly to reveal the thick black hair of a Noldor, though it was quickly replaced in a slightly too fast movement

Artanáro met the glare "You cannot run from everything Falathrandir, sooner or later..."

"Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do Elfling? You know nothing of me."

"I know you are secretive and that you run away."

No answer, just silent fuming and sight arrows aimed at his chest

"Do not judge those you do not understand, little one, unless you wish to make a fatal error one day."

He drew his lips back in a mocking snarl of anger "I am Artanáro Orodrethion, last High King of the Noldor, silent one. Who are you to judge who you do not know?"

"I know who you are" Falathrandir's voice was sad and soft "I knew your kin many ages ago, but I do not see why you pull rank now. The time of the Noldor in this land has been ending for many years, why do you return?"

I am bound by oath. He found himself watching for a reaction, only to be foiled by a hood

"As am I." That voice couldn't decide whether to be crisp bitter or confused. But there was a sadness there still, all too evident, and disappointment.

Artanáro sighed.

* * *

"Hold up."

He turned in the saddle to see his companion dismount the chestnut and peer at the ground. Curious he turned his horse and trotted back

"What is it?" His ears pricked up, listening for anything unusual, especially silence

Falathrandir continued searching then knelt, scooping something up off the ground with a shake of his head. Silenly he held up his find and Artanáro sighed. It was a horseshoe, and now he looked, he could see that the chestnut was missing one.

"As an old friend of mine would say, 'warped wood and twine'"

He nodded, understanding the odd expression to be a curse. Then, resignation in every muscle, he swung down from the saddle. Falathrandir looked at him in surprise and he met it

"You've made it quite plain I couldn't survive an hour without you in this land, and I'm not lording it by riding while you walk."

He almost didn't hear the quiet response "Bless you young one."

* * *

They'd been walking for about an hour before Orodreth's son spoke again "Do you think we'll get there before dark."

"Oh we will" He kept his eyes ahead, masking his inner nerves with cheer and a tiny dash of bravado. In utter honesty he had no real idea as to whether they would or not. He knew only that his hopes of earning them a meal and being able to make good time the next day depended on it. Early autumn it was still, but they were further inland, further north and closer to mountains than he had been for a long time. Winter would come faster here, and despite all their abilities against cold, he had no wish to be caught in the middle of it. He set his jaw, tossing his head up in a manner which unknown to him, flipped his hood slightly off to reveal his face.

* * *

Artanáro started, but didn't trip over the ever so inviting tree root in front of his toes. Neither did he comment on what he saw. But what was there he could say, that there was some familiarity in the other elf's face with his own kin? Not the ages of weariness and grief in the elf's eyes. No, in this it was better to stay silent. He ruefully acknowledged that if the marker point of Bree was as important and yet as incomprehensible as it would seem it might be he'd need Falathrandir at his side, and if the early attitude was anything to go by, too close to the mark questions would do more damage than good. But the tip of his tongue itched with questions, so he pointedly bit it.

* * *

"What did I tell you?"

He didn't get a chance to reply as Falathrandir raped sharply on the gate, which was doing a token attempt at being shut, though it was barely dusk.

"What's ado, what's ado. The little window opened and he started to pointedly ignore what was gong on, only to be nudged or poked sharply. Of course, it wouldn't do to reveal he couldn't understand more than a few words word of what was going on, despite Falathrandir's continued teachings. And now more than ever he hated his ignorance, It would mean he couldn't ask for news of his friends in this town, for surely it being so close they would know something.

A tap on his shoulder and he followed, Falathrandir into the town, keeping close and listening to the running explanation

"There's a smith here, and the gatekeeper said we'd stay at the Pony."

"The Prancing Pony?"

Falathrandir shrugged slightly "I wouldn't know, ah, here's the smith.

The smithy wasn't much better than the rest of the town. A whitewashed cruck-frame building of one story and what he had initial picked up of from a distance as being a hissing squeek from old bellows, snap of burning wood and clang of hammer on metal became a deafening amount of noise in a tuneless cacophony. It was only good manners that stopped him fleeing or clamping his hands tight over his ears to protect them. Thankfully when the smith caught sight of them he stopped hammering and gestured his apprentice, or so Artanáro assumed the boy was, away from the bellows.

* * *

"What can I do for you Sirs?"

Falathrandir relaxed as he heard the deep voice, slightly hoarse from years of bellowing over the noise; it was like finding an old friend in a strange place, something tangible he understood and could relate too. Something he remembered. This smith however, did not have the flame red hair of his memories, but a dark brown mop and beard that seemed one and the same. Still he allowed himself a small smile and, turning his back slightly to Artanáro, pushed off his hood.

"My horse cast a shoe half a day back, you're the first smith we've found."

Frowning the smith walked around him and picked up the offending hoof, muttering as he looked at it. Falathrandir waited with patience for him to speak again. Finally the smith set the hoof down

"There's no damage, but I'll want to see coin afore I start."

He raised his hands apologetically "I have been out of this area a long time, there is little that would pay in my purse."

The Smith hrumphed and looked stern for a moment "Times have been hard eh?"

He nodded "Very"

"Then we'll go back to the old fashioned way, payment in kind, craft for craft."

He let out a breath slowly "I'll pay you coin after I've been to the Pony, I can raise some there"

"No, you'll pay me in ale, once I've done the job, me Da taught me not to be rude to a travelling musician..."

Slowly Falathrandir lifted his head from it's study of the floor and met the twinkling eyes and a smile, grasping the offered hand with his own "Deal"

"Well?" Artanáro wasn't surprised to have no answer, they were after all surrounded by strangers. Still, he found it rather rude as Falathrandir led him into yet another noisy building, this one, judging by the emblem outside, Frodo's much beloved Prancing Pony. In fact, crowded was an understatement, he wasn't sure how so many people fitted into a small space

"They've just finished the harvest I think, so everyone and his dog is hear." Was all he picked up from Falathrandir's hurried and hushed explanation, only to notice that there weren't in fact any dogs. Quietly he tucked himself in one of the corners, dropping into the seat by the table with weireness in every part of his mind

* * *

Falathrandir waited until Barliman had a moment, unwilling to barge into the press "A room with two beds, two horses to stable a meal for us and drinks for the smith.

The innkeeper waited, looking him up and down "Coin?"

He shook his head and turned to reveal the leather case on his back "Kind ."

Barliman clapped his hands "A musician, that'll suit us fine" He gestured towards the side of the room that Falathrandir noted was emptier, "If you'd be my guest."

As he unpacked his harp, sighing with relief when he saw none of the strings were frayed or broken, he allowed his eyes to range over his audience. Farmers some of them, or lesser townsfolk. He nodded to himself, half touching the strings to check their turning, but keeping the music low so only he could hear it. All was well. Then, almost relaxed in his manner, he lifted his head up again, holding his eyes to Barliman's for a minute

The barkeeper clapped for silence and from a great distance the elf heard himself being introduced. As eyes turned to him he struck up the simplest tune that flew into his head. It was, as some would say, as old as the hills and not exactly the most musically elaborate. But his fingers knew their work, it woke the old skill and the tough callouses that had once lived there. And he knew he'd need those callouses as the evening wore on.

* * *

When he plucked the final note there was a mutter of applause across the room, but also a few frowning faces. He sighed and set his fingers back on the strings, plucking out a ditty before they could nay-say him. That one had little better reception than the one he'd played before. In the hubbub of chatter that followed, none about his music, he shut his eyes and lent his head on the high point of the harp, taking deep breaths. This hurt. It was true he was out of practise, carrying his harp almost for sentimentality than practicality. But when he did play it always earned him borad and lodging for a night. Now it seemed they might rely solely on the Innkeeper's good will for beds to sleep in. _They_. That was what made things worse, that he had another depending on him for security tonight.

He felt a mug being pressed in to his hands and accepted it without thinking. The beer was coarsely bitter, ironically matching his mood. Passing it back he glanced up at his travelling companion feeling a comforting hand squeeze his non occupied shoulder. After a moment he nodded, sitting up straighter and checking the tuning on reflex.

"Excuse me Sir"

He looked about him in surprise for a second before his eyes rested on a young hobbit lad. With a smile he nodded, both in greeting and permission to speak.

"We, some friends and I... Well they say you're not elf trained and I say you are. I was wondering..." He faded off into mumbling

"Well, lad?"

"If you are elf-trained, can you play one of their songs, something really old."

He sensed that there might be a bet going on behind the scenes and

tilted his head as if considering "I think I might be able to, lad, as you ask so nicely."

The boy grinned so much it seemed his face would fall in two, and he scampered off into the throng with extra spring.

Slowly, with all the affection that had developed over the years, he replaced his fingers on their strings. Slowly, he let the harp rest neatly on his shoulder, cushioning it with a positioning ages old. Slowly, oh so slowly, he took a deep breath and let it ease back out from his lungs soft as a summer breeze.

The music came.

* * *

The first chords were soft, but they cut through the incomprehensible chatter and Artanáro found himself lifting his head from it's position in his hands. It was easy, ridiculously so to have his eyes drawn to Falathrandir, for everyone else was looking in the same direction. There was a blanket of silence as the music flew from the harp strings and as he watched anyone would have seen he nodded slightly, as if in conformation of a thought, though he himself was unaware of the movement.

* * *

The tune was strong under his fingers and he allowed the fraction pause before striking the first verse chord

"_Rejoice that ye have found it and rest from endless war_

_for the seven named city 'tis that stands upon the hill,_

_where all who strive with Morgoth find hope and valour still_

_'What be those names' said Tuor 'For I come from long afar?'_

_'Tis said and tis sung,'one answered '"My name is Gondobar_

_and Gondolithimbar also, the city hewn of stone_

_the fortress of the elven folk who dwell in Halls of stone."_

He sang on, fingers dancing over the old tune. This wasn't one of his, indeed he'd only ever heard of Gondolin, but it was one he loved. Until the very end it spoke of harmony and friendship between people and peoples. And even as they fell, torn to pieces by Morgoth's demons the heads of houses stood together, protecting each others backs and warring for the light side by side. He cried as the lament for Glorfindel flew, but he smiled for the rest, and even through his tears.

This time they applauded, and he saw smiles and nods from many by the bar. Silently he reached out and patted the soundbox of his harp, a silent gesture of thanks.

* * *

He watched with bemusement as the patrons began to slur and wobble. Elves had been known to drink somewhat to excess, and Dunedain too. But that normally had a reason to it, celebrations or grief. This, this had no rhyme or reason that he could guess at. The Elf sighed, feeling out of his depth and lonely. Falathrandir hadn't come to their table since he'd sat down, instead sitting separate as he played.

* * *

The Harper watched his audience. This would be his last song he decided, he'd paid his costs and extra. Besides they were getting too drunk to care if he played or not. And with that thought came his inspiration for his finale. With a sly twitch of one lip he played the opening notes, resisting the nerves to look over one shoulder

_"A sailor walked along the key_

_Fresh out from his ship_

_Ran into a fisher-maid_

_And tried for a nip_

_"What do you sell oh pretty one_

_And may I give it a try?"_

_But the fisher-maid, she slapped him_

_Gave him a black eye_

_Sir I do not play that game_

_Nor shall I ever try_

_I sell_

_Mussels by four_

_Cockles by the eight_

_Haddock Flounder a' Good old skate_

_But you won't get Huss or rock cod_

_No not from this little cart_

_you'll have to look else where if you want a dart_

_And the sailor cursed and muttered_

_"How now you little snap_

_I was only being friendly_

_Be nice to a lonely chap"_

_The maid she glared_

_With fire in her eye_

_And spoke with a voice like a weighted die_

_Sir I sell;_

_Mussels by the four_

_Cockles by the eight_

_Haddock Flounder a' Good old skate_

_But you won't get huss or rock cod_

_No not from this little cart_

_you'll have to look else where if you want a dart_

_But the sailor he was stubborn,_

_Like a reef or rock_

_And he wouldn't stop a-trying_

_So she had to give him a knock_

_Oh he reeled and he staggered,_

_And lurched onto the ground._

_The fisher-maid stood over him_

_True and proud_

_'Here are;_

_Mussels by the four_

_Cockles by eight_

_Haddock Flounder a' Good old skate_

_But you won't get huss or rock cod_

_No not from this little cart_

_you'll have to look elsewhere if you want a dart_

_Aye you'll have to look elsewhere if you want a little dart.'"_

By the end everyone who could half carry a tune was bawling along with the chorus. As the final raucous chord sang out he sprang to his feet sweeping his cloak out in the manner of a formal court musician as he bowed, only to quite deliberately wink at the audience and spoil the illusion.

* * *

The noise was still audible as they finished their dinner, though judging by the moon it could be morning meal already. For the sake of appearances they had made a point of appearing sleepy as they climbed the stairs, something which he realised had likely produced more amusement than the last song Falathrandir had sung. He glanced over at his companion, who perched in the shadowed window seat rather than share the table. And his hood was up again.

Why the other elf bothered with such pretense when his face had been exposed for the entire tavern for most of the evening he did no know. But he allowed it and, cornering the last scrap in the bread basket, wondered how he would persuade the other elf to admit the truth of who he was before they arrived in Imladris. For there the tables would turn yet again, whether or not, (and he'd begun to suspect not) his official reason for coming here was in residence.

* * *

Artanáro slept, or rested his eyes at the very least. But Falathrandir did not curl up on his mattress. He stayed in the window seat, watching the night. Winter was coming, but now the sky was lighter than it had been for much of his life. It was a time of happiness, of peace and, a thought almost impossible for his mind to realise, a time of safety.

* * *

**Don't think there are any translations today.**

**The chorus of Fisher-Maid scans to the Chorus of Les Miserables Master of the House, while the first song is Tolkien's**

**Merry Christmas**


	6. Along the Lost Road

**Thanks to _Kaisaan Greenleaf_ and _SG_ for reviewing.**

**This one didn't take too long I hope, but please forgive any errors as it is late at night now.**

* * *

"You are a riddle" Artanáro tried to block his companion on the road

"You are an owl"

That stopped him short, he hadn't expected a response, much less a riddle. But his companion didn't wait for him to ask questions, dropping his reins and using his cupped hands to do the old trick of an owl call, something every boy knew

"H-h-h-how- how, why-why, who-who." There was a pause "You're always asking questions, and it grows irksome after a while. You're a grown elf by your age if not to me, so act like one."

Ashamed suddenly, he looked away, missing a piercing glance that would have told him much about its owner. But he did not apologise, his pride stopped him. To others this would be a fault, but Falathrandir made no comment, instead Artanáro sensed understanding.

* * *

But the remainder of the journey had no camaraderie evident, and that wasn't wishful thinking masking his senses either. The silence was more stone than thickness, with less recognition than two strangers who were traveling the same route. Falathrandir seemed almost surly, tight lipped and hard eyes. There was no echo of the cheery minstrel in the cold autumn light, no quips or tunes springing through the air. It was as if, Artanáro thought, two people lived inside that body, one who had appeared in the pony and the one he saw now. But even as he rationalised that his mind drew attention to the first few songs in the Pony, when there had been no appreciation from the audience and Falathrandir seemed to falter. He gave his companion a circumspect look, secretly relieved he could pass it off as checking that the other was keeping up.

For the last few days he had become the leader, not that there was much to lead. Indeed, it was only because he knew, or had a better chance of knowing, the way to Imladris from here on in that he was in this position. But it felt better to be leading than subservient, especially in this country. Valinor was very different, so many old elves who ranked him and yet so much time and acceptance to fit himself in, as well as an acceptance of the rank he had held and the deeds he had done in these lands. He considered, unaware that he cocked his head dog fashion while doing so. Perhaps it was that he missed as much as the alterations in the culture, the fact that he held no rank or station in this land, had nothing to mark him apart from anyone else. As much as he'd professed to hate it the rank, first as a relative of the king, then his heir and finally as king in his own right, had been part of his self, part of his understanding of who Artanáro Orodrethion was and where he fitted in the Dagor board that was the world. Now he fully understood the metaphor of a ship without a rudder, though he felt more as if he missed a mooring place, or an anchor. It was unnerving.

* * *

"If you are leading, you must pay attention to the road ahead."

The youngster blinked, very much like an owl in sunlight, apparently having been unaware of his staring. It made Falathrandir want to laugh aloud, the complete bemusement that flickered on that face for a long moment.

But he did not laugh. A wish to save the other's pride wasn't what stopped him, for he'd seen Pride in all its monstrous form rise and devour many of the greatest. He simply couldn't laugh. The good humour stuck in his throat and throttled itself, nearly grabbing him in the same instant.

The further along the road they got, the stiller and stiller he found himself becoming. Even his mind seemed to be gripped by paralysis, refusing to think, even to block out the music of birds. Instead treacherously, the notes crept into his ears and made his fingers twitch as if playing. He tightened his grip on the reins. Now was no time to play, and it hadn't been for years. The last time he'd truly set fingers to strings for more than board had been perhaps fourteen or fifteen years ago

_When they were all together; that summer day... I had Ambarussayo singing Fëanor's solo, and Phir was trying to get his tongue around that complicated bit of the baritone duet, with a lot of muddling in between._

Those had been good days, every year for forty odd, those weeks in the summer had been the most precious of his recent life, quite possibly the best in all his eastern land life.

* * *

"Imladris tomorrow"

Falathrandir didn't seem to hear. Or did he, for moments after, his mouth tightened and he turned his eyes outwards towards the woods. It seemed as if he was going to stand up and walk away. Then he turned back, staring at the fire.

"Then I will leave before dawn."

He checked at that "I beg your pardon?"

"You don't need me as mud on your cloak hem, I will not besmirch you with my own disgrace."

Falathrandir lifted his head, and Artanáro realised that he had dispensed with keeping his hood over his eyes, though it still covered his head. Those eyes were the same silvery grey of any Noldor, or any elf for that matter, there was no clue to his kinship, while the hood hid his kindred knots. Except for one thing, he had to force himself not to lean forward when he noticed. There was a glint in those eyes. It could just be the fire reflection, but the reflection flickered, and the glint didn't. He'd seen that glint before, but only a few times.

And then, everything fell into place, right up to what his companion had said moments before.

Without showing anything he stood up and loosened his cloak, placing it on the ground, before he looked over to Falathrandir

"You'd get lost in these mountains and hills, they're as twisting as a hunted animal's path. Come with me to Imladris, it's safe there."

Falathrandir met his eyes, something close to amusement in them "You'll use my own tricks against me will you Artanáro?" There was a slight shrug. "You learn well, High King."

It was quite a while later, when he lay down with his back to the fire that a hand rested on his covered shoulder and a voice whispered in his ear. you're worthy of your great grandfather."

And when Falathrandir and his chestnut were gone when he woke in the morning he wondered if that had been a goodbye.

* * *

The dawn broke over the valley, like honey poured from a warm comb, or liquid gold in a smiths forge. But it was almost unnecessary guiding. Even in the moon light Imladris had seemed like an echo of Valinor of the trees. The valley he gazed into with blurring eyes seemed to sing a welcome, to cry of warmth help and companionship, while the buildings spoke of learning and endurance to all troubles, a stalwart safety. It was almost too much for him to stand, all the walls that he had slowly lived behind threatened to crack, all the more because a young elfling found on top of a books case seemed to hover in a mist around it. Elrond, Eärendil's son, child of Sirion, his special foster, had built this paradise. Yes, that is what it was, he thought as he swung up onto the chestnut's back and sent it onto the descending pass, a paradise in the eastern shore, more than Mithlond or Lindon could ever have been. Doriath perhaps may have equalled it, but in a different, more foreign way, as he'd never seen the great forests of Valinor up close.

"I thought you were vanishing west again."

He didn't even turn around to acknowledge the speaker "Careful, youngling, I can rescind praise just as easily as giving it."

"You'll like Imladris, once we get to the buildings."

_I am already in love with it Orodrethion, it is where my heart has sought for years, without me even realising._

* * *

_S_lowly they rode along the valley paths. As they wound back and forth Falathrandir felt himself relax, and as the horses clipped across the last bridge, used the cover of the waterfall to hum an old riding tune. Heart lighter, he looked back to Artanáro, to see the younger elf grinning like a child. Lips moved, and despite the noise he could read them enough to understand 'I am where I belong again'

He simply nodded.

* * *

The stables were full. Nowhere near as full as they had been in its hey-day, but far fuller than Artanáro expected to see. Thankfully, there were a few empty loose boxes, two of which he commandeered for their mounts. It was late, already early dusk and he felt a lazy longing for a warm bed and a good meal. But there were none of the attendants about, even when he scrambled up to the hay loft to check there and found some fodder for their mounts.

With a shake of his head he turned to Falathrandir, who was bolting his horse's box carefully "We'll have to play Seek before we get dinner and a bed I'm afraid."

The other elf shrugged, seeming unconcerned "I'm not hungry anyway."

But alarmingly Imladris seemed, to the immediate eye, to be deserted. Artanáro began to worry. No guards on the borders or the paths, no attendants in the stables, no-one in the halls. Was it possible that the last occupants had already headed west or south, to the sea or the new colony? Had he built up his companion's hopes only for them to sleep in empty ghost filled rooms before starting on the road again? And what of his own mission and his old friends, Glorfindel, Erestor, little Lindir, where were they? Then, as he turned to face Falathrandir and break the news, his ear caught a strain of music...

* * *

He knew that tune. He'd played that tune. He even had a suspicion that Elros had written the thing. He ran soundlessly, harp riding high on his back, Artanáro at his side, guiding him when he paused in confusion. They came to a door ajar, with firelight glinting through the gap. For a moment, as Artanáro's entering revealed a large group, his courage quailed, then he gritted his teeth and followed.

The room was lit exclusively by a large fireplace on one wall, filling the room with warmth as well as a wonderful golden illumination. But his eyes skimmed over the room, and even most of the occupants.

In the centre of a large oval formed by the group, of which they were on one side, two people were dancing. He knew the dance, the Scurry, one from Númenor, and his eyes knew the dancers, though his mind wouldn't believe it.

The girl, though she was more a woman, was Thiri, little Thiri, while the man... His heart had believed since he saw the mousy hair and the set of the shoulders, but it was only as the second dancer spun, so revealing his face, that he knew.

"He's alive..." His voice cracked even in a whisper, and he found himself weeping. _He's alive, They're all three still alive. _

He found his fingers dancing as if they were playing, and this time, made no attempt to stop them until the tune was lost in a shout of Quenya.

"Well danced!"

* * *

**In case it isn't obvious, the last part of this chapter is the same evening as the ending of _There's still a life in Arda_, so everyone is now back on the same timeline.**

**Reviews please... **

**anymore guesses as to our mystery elf? (quite a few clues dropped now)**


	7. First Strike

**Thanks to _Kaisaan Greenleaf_ for reviewing. Hope everyone likes this chapter.  
**

* * *

It seemed that everyone both froze and turned towards the sound in a second. Faramir did the same, but with more confusion than most, for he had not the slightest clue as to what had been said, save that it was in High Elven.

One elf stood near the doorway, in the light. He wore a grubby leather traveling cloak tied to his neck while his boots bore marks of both riding and walking on muddy roads.

He glanced from elf to elf, seeing recognition of the stranger on some, almost most faces, yet there was none of the ecstatic greetings he would expect for a traveler, nor had there been any mention of a member out on a patrol.

The tall elf advanced with slow paces. Slow, but not hesitant, Faramir noted. Instead it seemed stately, someone who held a rank that they know is high, yet not with arrogance. He'd seen his father move in such a way, and his uncle and Aragorn, though Aragorn always seemed a little more forced in his formal role. This elf had the air of a king.

"_Am man oduleg hi?_"

* * *

Artanáro turned his head to the speaker "That was not reaction I expected, especially not from you, Erestor."

"Ever wary and skeptical" The adviser inclined his head from where he sat near the fire "Welcome Ereinion.

As the phrase was echoed around the hall a spate of whispers broke from the _Hildor_ and he realised that none of them had recognised him on sight. And _then_ they had the audacity to laugh.

He looked about "Explain please"

A tall man with the look of Elendil about him stepped forward and spoke in Sindarin "A few of us were surprised that you'd made it all this way, without Bill Ferny of Bree eating you for breakfast."

He bowed his head, adopting a slight humility as his ears appeared to hear a chuckle from behind him, while also completely confused. "I did not come alone." Then, using the hand tucked behind his back, he beckoned his companion to come forward.

* * *

The elf had tucked himself deep as the shadows would let him, reluctant to show his face. While the first bout of talk went on he considered slipping out the door. Artanáro did not need his help any more, he was with his own people who would take him in. But despite his rational thoughts, he found it impossible to move, impossible to tear his eyes from the elf who absent-minded steadied a harp as he listened to the discussion going on around him, with only minimum surprise in his grey, intelligent eyes. So when Artanáro signaled secretly that he should come forward and by extension appear to the group, he hesitated, took a deep breath, then stepped away from his shelter.

All eyes fell on him, in much the same way as they had on Artanáro, yet he dreaded recognition and identification, not for itself, but because of what would follow. Holding himself still he allowed one single sign of submission or nerves, depending on who looked, to show. He bowed his head.

* * *

The figure that came out of the shadowed corner wasn't who had been expected. He'd assumed it would be one of Cirdan's elves, either Falathrim bred or just a lingerer who was willing to act as escort. This elf was neither, though lingerer could be applied to him. He was Noldo, and old Noldo too. Automatically, his eyes moved to the temples, only to received a shock. The strands were drawn back, yes, but they were not knotted in the traditional form. As he looked closer, he found his hands dropping from the harp strings.

* * *

He was shaking, quivering like a leaf in a breeze. No, more like a rabbit facing a warg, or a pack of wargs. And he was paralyzed in a similar way, only the dig of his harp-case on his shoulder reminding him he was in fact conscious rather than under Valar judgement, though he wasn't sure which he preferred.

"Adûnathôr?"

The voice was quizzical, confused. Something told him not to react but he found he'd already tilted his head in the direction of the speaker.

"Is it you?" Adûnaic, of course, the language his addresser had always reverted to in confusion.

_Don't react, Don't react, Don't react any more._

"We thought you dead"

He found his lips twitching "As I did you."

The next thing he knew a lady's hand had slapped him sharply on the side of the head and that annoying Númenórean language was drilled into his mind by a strident voice "Do you realise how worried we've been? Father had men out looking for you as soon as he could spare them, and when none of the fishermen in the camps had seen you..."

Another man's voice intruded, this one a stranger's "Thiri...

The rest of the words sounded something like Common but with an inflection that recalled the Halathrim to his mind. Their meaning was clear however; 'enough'.

"_Macalaurë, lúmë anda awánië_"

Resignation settled in his heart, but not before gratitude that the other elf had used his _Amilessë_, not his _Ataressë_. When he answered, it was soft, almost reluctantly "_Aiya Laurefindil_."

In the corner of his vision his saw the golden head bob slightly.

Then the smallest of noises made him lift his head from its bowed position. Without hesitation his eyes fell on the tall, noble, harper. His heart thudded in his ears, drowning out sound. They held each-others eyes for a long, long moment. He wasn't sure what he waited for, what he wanted to see and what he dreaded. His mind seemed to have stopped working.

In slow motion he saw the elf stand up, without breaking the eye contact. Distantly he heard the word that came from that moving mouth, but it hardy registered.

The elf seemed to come to life suddenly, letting go of his harp and striding forward. Then there were arms around him, only prevented from pulling him close by the harp case on his back.

"You came back, you've kept your promise"

The words were Quenya, Exilic rather than the old form of Valinor which Glorfindel had used, but for a moment he wondered if he had misunderstood.

"Promise?" And then he remembered. A small elfling in a cave under a waterfall, wanting to know whether he'd be back to play and sing after supper and his reply '_one day... I will sing for you again_'.

"I hoped you were still alive, I knew if you were that you would come back, I knew you would... Father-"

Some rational part of his brain told him that Elrond hadn't finished what he was saying but he reacted before he thought. Using all of a mad strength, he shoved the Peredhil away from him. As soon as he was free he dropped his hands down, showing he meant no threat.

"I am not your father, _Idhrethor_ _Eärendilion_." Then, quite deliberately, and as obviously as he had stressed the elf's parentage, he drew himself into a formal stance "My lord, I am sorry for my intrusion, I shall remove myself from your domain at once" He gave a low bow, only to freeze as a loud accusing voice rang out across the room.

"_Nossinehtar!_ _Umbarquen_!"

* * *

Faramir was uncertain what had been meant by the words, only that Adûnathôr had blanched when he heard them, and that concurrently Glrofindel had stormed across to the musicians with a face like black thunder, very black thunder. Still, most of them saw Adûnathôr turn smartly on his heel and make an exit which could only be described as final. Both Elrond and this Ereinion seemed frozen for a few moments, each staring at the door with degrees of emotion on their faces; shock in Elrond's case and comprehending confusion for the other.

Ereinion seemed to recover first; striding over, exuding royal authority, and accosting the elf Glorfindel had clearly identified as the culprit. Elrond took moments longer but his response was far sharper, practically running from the room. On an impulse Faramir followed, to find himself accompanied by Tuilindo, his brother, Aragorn and Glorfindel.

* * *

Maglor forced himself to breathe slowly as he heaved the saddle onto the gelding, bucking the straps with fingers that refused to stay steady.

_It's better this way, I should never even have come _

He barely needed to hear to know his foster son was behind him

"Let me go ... Move on with your life" He spoke clearly "I do not belong here."

His heart and fëa screamed at him as he said that, forcing him to acknowledge a truth_. I do not belong anywhere_

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Elrond half turned his head, keeping an eye on him all the time and spoke to another elf standing nearby.

"Bar the gates, no-one goes out without the escort of myself, Elladan, Elrohir or Glorfindel."

The elf nodded a bow and walked away with quick even strides, a purpose in each step.

Maglor found himself staring at nothing and, turning, forced his eyes to focus on Elrond, "You can't hold me prisoner."

His foster son's gaze was steady as he spoke, his voice commendably cool, "I've no intention of such a thing, however I will use whatever means necessary to prevent you from leaving..."

He stepped forwards, left hand extended "_Ai_, Elrond... don't make this harder than it already is" Grey eyes watched him impassively "Let me mount my horse and ride out the gates, I promise I'll never darken the happiness of your house again." Then, abruptly he turned back towards the chestnut, checking the last straps were tight enough.

"Maglor...please"

He heard the child behind the adult in that last word, the way Elrond's voice cracked, and knew that tears would be brimming in the Peredhil's eyes

"I cannot... already too much dissent has been caused by my being here"

He turned the horse and lead it out of the box, down the aisle towards the doors. They were shut and barred.

"Don't make us fight you, Káno"

Glorfindel's voice came from the side and he automatically glanced over, following old instincts impossible to remove. Sure enough a group of warriors were slowly converging; Glorfindel and an elf who was probably Elrond son on one side, Boromir, another elf and the man that had mentioned Bree, who reminded him of Elros on the other. He sighed, knowing that though he could easily get through the Edain, he was never going to hurt one of his pupils. Slowly he felt the reins slip from his hand, slithering from numb fingers towards the floor. Then, symbolically, he raised his hands up to shoulder height, opening them in the traditional signal of surrender and turned slowly about to walk back towards the house. He heard Elrond sigh as he passed, but managed to prevent his eyes looking over. Instead he just kept walking, back straight, head high. The mythical image of a Fëanorion, defiant uncontrollable, uncaring.

* * *

**Translations**

**Quenya**

**_Hildor_= Followers (a term for Mortals)**

**_Lúmë anda awánië_= It has been a long time (Dialect of Valinor)**

**_Aiya_= Hail**

**_Amilessë= Mother-Name _(one of three key names an elf has, given by the mother either at birth or later)_  
_**

**___Ataressë= _Father Name (above, but given by the Father just after birth) Maglor's is _Kanafinwë_, shortened to Káno ___  
_**

**_Nossinehtar_= Kinslayer**

**_Umbarquen_= Doomed One**

**Sindarin**

**_Am man oduleg hi?_= Why are you here_  
_**

**___Idhrethor_= Thoughtful Brother (the epessi I imagine the Sirion elves used for Elrond.)_  
_**

**This is probably the last chapter before I go back to Uni, so enjoy it. See you all in early June**

**Reviews would be lovely...**


	8. Incomprehension

**Due to the endearing pleas of my reviewers, and a minor flash of inspiration you get one more chapter before I disappear. Enjoy it.**

**Thanks to _Kaisaan Greenleaf_, _Glory Bee_ and _cai-ann_ for reviewing.**

* * *

It was Glorfindel who found him. The dark haired elf was curled up in a corner, burying himself back between two bookcases, his head on his knees and his shoulders shaking with almost silent sobs.

"_Gilig?"_ The half-Vanyar crouched down and tugged tentatively on a sleeve. Slowly a head was raised, revealing rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks. He opened his arms "Come here."

As if the Peredhel was a child he embraced him, letting him rest his head on his chest, ignoring the gentle soaking of his robes as more tears fell

"Why..." it was so soft, so plaintive that he once more had to remind himself that he held a grown elf, not an elfling, in his arms. "does he want a home so little that he'd try to walk out into a freezing autumn night without even a cloak."

He sighed, suddenly conscious of the age difference between them as he had never been before. "Nay, Elrond, he longs for a home... But he has suffered so much, seen lives and families torn apart because of him. He does not want that to happen here, because he loves you so."

Elrond lifted his head and he met the look "Does he not realise how much I've missed him?... Had he asked, that day, I would have gone with him without a second thought."

Glorfindel knew a heart-confession when he heard it and tried to make his next words, which could be a rebuke, as gentle as possible

"You were a child, clinging to the only representation of safety you knew at that moment. Now Maglor does much the same. He has suffered, these ages.. suffered more than any one person should have to." Slowly he drew his lord to his feet and steered him to the desk chair.

"He has tried to seal his heart, to stop anyone from forming connections with him. But he is too loving to manage that, so instead he keeps himself apart, always drifting, stopping only to earn some food or a bed. He wishes to hurt none any more, and is weighted by guilt." Glorfindel shook his head "The guilt he feels, if my own is even a twelfth of it, he must be sinking. And I would wager it is more."

"Maitimo, _i Amburassar_" Elrond's voice was still soft, but it was a softness of thinking, not hurt.

He nodded slowly and briefly touched Elrond's shoulder as he left "Speak to him tomorrow morning... Ereinion can wait." The Peredhil shot him a startled look and he held it "Your king he may be, but you were given autonomy over this valley... Use it."

Elrond nodded, his jaw set in a fashion so like Tuor that Glorfindel had to hide a small smile.

* * *

"Adûnathôr" Faramir tapped on the door, then thumped it more firmly when there was no discernible response "I've brought breakfast"

Pressed against wood his ear picked up a half growl of Quenya, which quite probably meant go away, though whether it was polite or not he could not tell. Twisting the key in the lock he shouldered the door open and walked in. Adûnathôr, Maglor now, was sitting by the window, staring at the glass. With a deliberate clatter he set the tray on the table. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"So you're angry too..." Adûnathôr's voice was so soft he barely heard it

He sighed "No, I'm just confused... You know Uncle is a traditionalist. He loved the elven tales as much as us children. He didn't hold with father's revolution to Adûnaic..."

"He thought it was sacrilege of the worst kind." A little bit of spirit seemed to return in that, though it was sadness.

"...so why didn't you tell him? You would have been safe."

"Safe from your father maybe, but what of your reaction, your brother's, your cousins'?" Adûnathôr turned to face him "If you had known I was one of the Fëanorians, it would have colored how you thought of me from then on. We were the kinship that held, and still holds, the blood of hundreds, maybe even a thousand elves on our hands.

Faramir stepped forwards "You have less, all the stories agree on that."

Adûnathôr glared at him "All of _my_ stories you mean, or Elrond's... despite my best efforts." His voice was surprisingly bitter.

Faramir shook his head "I've heard other tales too, you are always the least blameless of the others, along with the twins and Maedhros."

Adûnathôr turned away and he realised he was going to get no further with this argument. As he turned to leave he remembered the last message he'd been charged to give,

"Lord Elrond wants to see you in his study before midday"

He'd hoped for some form of response, but got none. The elf was gazing at the window, heedless.

* * *

The morning slipped past, drawing close to midday. Midday came and midday passed, but Maglor didn't come. When he realised it was simply impossible that he would appear, Elrond let his head drop into his hands. He didn't know what to do, or even what to think. Was it possible his heart-father had simply forgotten, or was too frightened to leave his room, too frightened of having to ask directions in the minor maze that his house could be. True that the old Maglor had never seemed frightened or even frightenable, but things had changed now, changed beyond belief. He found it hard to understand, he who had sometimes been called solitary, why any elf would choose to spend an age and a half wandering alone. He could understand that Maglor considered himself exiled from Elven society. But surely the he could have made a more or less permanent niche for himself with the Faithful. Judging by the Fact Faramir had claimed the duty of taking him breakfast, and from how Lothíriel had reacted he had clearly gained a friend or two at some point in Dol Amroth.

He just didn't understand.

* * *

Maglor stared out of the window. He could see elves going about their daily business, most with a liveliness of importance in their stride. Very few looked up at his window, either ignoring his eyes or not sensing them. The handful that did seemed curious, though one elf, who he thought might be the one who had called out, glared at him with unconcealed hatred or disgust, at least until he spotted someone coming and disappeared. Yet at the other end of the scale was a tall blond ellon who made a point of waving and waiting until, hesitantly and reluctantly, he managed to jerk a hand in reply.

After that he moved away from the window, turning his eyes to the room. Everything was there, desk, bed, clothes chests. And they were all elf made, nothing had the stockiness that might suggest a Northman's craftship. This was a fine room, appointed for a highly respected guest. And Elrond had given it to him.

He didn't understand why.

* * *

"What is going on?"

"What do you mean by that Win?" Aragorn looked over at the youngest member of the group.

The blond boy returned his look, but with such eyes as to imply he was being an idiot. Aragorn had to hide his laughter, it had been long and long since he'd seen such a look, from the lad's grandmother as it happened.

"These elves, they turn up and everything goes hooves over muzzle, who are they?"

"One is or was the King of the Noldor, the other, he fostered Lord Elrond and his brother when he was a child."

"Foster? Like _Godgyfu_?"

Aragorn paused for a moment, before remembering the East Marshal's younger daughter "Exactly."

"Then why does it cause such problems?"

Aragorn spread his hands slowly "Before he fostered Elrond and his brother, the elf had done a number of very bad things, as had his family. These bad things meant they were exiled from their homes and when word reached other elves beyond their home they were shunned there too. His brothers continued to do bad things, they all died for it. All but he, his mother and grandfather are dead"

"Did he do those things?"

"We simply don't know if he did, Win. All anyone knows is that he's been wandering for more time than someone your age, or even mine, can fully comprehend, and that though he is clearly lonely, will not accept the offer of a home."

"How do you know he won't accept, he only turned up yesterday"

Was it only yesterday evening? Aragorn found it surprisingly hard to remember. Certainly He and Arwen had spent most of the night awake discussing what had occurred and what it meant, but...

"He and his kin are known to be stubborn, Elfwine. It is what got them into so much trouble in the first place."

Surprisingly the boy giggled briefly, clearly relating the stubbornness to someone he knew, but then his face became frowning and puzzled

"I don't understand"

_Nor do any of us, child... Adar and Maglor least of all._

It was a heart-breaking thought.

* * *

**Translations**

**Sindarin_  
_**

**_Gilig_ = Little Star  
**

**Quenya_  
_**

**_i Amburassar= The Copper-Tops _(Maglor's two youngest brothers, Nerdanel's twins)_  
_**

**Reviews please, to bolster me through the restart of term**_  
_


	9. Gardens and Cliffs

**Yep another chapter, but this will be the last, as I really have to knuckle down to essays now. Thanks to_ Kaisaan Greenleaf_ and _cal-ann_ for reviewing.**

* * *

Imladris operated, exactly as it had for all the years at the end of the second age when its lord rode with the alliance, and more recently when he was in Gondor. This time was different, for their lord was present... in body at least. But not even the most bitter and stone-hearted Sinda, those who suffered most of the Kinslayings, would have attempted to force the Lord of Imladris to take up his duties.

"I've seen him in a state something like this once, when he returned from the alliance. But then the advisor paused and shook his head "No that was guilt and bitterness as much as grief. The closest I can come is when Arwen was married finally and he knew her fate was irrevocable."

"When his lady left?" Queried the taller and darker haired elf who stood in the alcove with him. They spoke Quenya, knowing that fewer would understand.

"He buried himself in his work and his children, though he was always shaky when the twins went riding... They were grief-blind, didn't care about their own lives as long as they cut down orcs."

The elf nodded understanding, then glanced back in the rough direction of Elrond's room.

"I have seen something like this, though I would hazard it was worse."

Erestor waited, seeing a flickering of pain in his King's eyes

"When Elros died, I went to the funeral for formality as much as personal reasons and it was well I did. I'm not sure he would have left the tomb otherwise...it took two of us to drag him away."

The advisor frowned, unsure what to make of that, only to be interrupted by another voice, this one speaking Common.

"You must remember, _Gil-Galad_, that Elros was his only link to his childhood, that they had always been there for each other. I was broken when I found my sister on Pelennor, dead, as I thought, and my uncle, who had fostered us for all those years, cold nearby.

Together they turned and Erestor found Eomer standing near his shoulder, eyes almost too hard as he held back emotion.

"Perhaps it is similar for Elrond, to find you and this _Maglor_ alive, would be a dream, yet suddenly Maglor wants nothing to do with him, That rejection hurts more than death, if you have given your heart."

Erestor quietly translated, only to find his former king attempting to phrase a response in the man's language

"You said _hurts, _you suffered the same?"

Éomer shrugged, "Near enough to make little difference, when Wormtongue" He seemed likely to spit or swear but restrained himself, "Got hold of my uncle."

Subtly, Erestor gave his former king a sharp pinch on the back of the arm where Éomer wouldn't see. That had been the signal they'd had before the partings, meaning effectively, _don't say anything about THAT_. True to form Artanáro let the comment pass with a mere sympathetic nod.

* * *

The gardens were empty, but he found it impossible to make his movements less furtive. Every moment he had his ears straining for sound, his eyes flashing from side to side. His steps were short and crouched, like a deer about to flee. At every slight rustle of branches his heart threatened to separate itself from his chest.

He mustn't be seen, he mustn't be seen.

But someone had sharp eyes to see through the foliage, for that same angry voice broke the peace, shouting across the garden, this time in Sindarin so all would understand.

"KINSLAYER!"

He fled.

It was a misplaced foot and a raised root that finally halted his blind dash, flinging him to the dirt path with enough force to leave him winded. And a good thing, too, he noted as he picked himself up gingerly, for a few more steps and he might have gone falling down into the valley, with nothing to break or slow his fall.

"Are you well?"

He snapped out of the memory abruptly, finding himself covered in cold sweat and shaking. Slowly ,trying to disguise his state, he looked over his shoulder. A golden haired elf was approaching up the track, a concerned frown on his face.

"Have you come to mock me too?" The Quenya came out harshly as he hid behind a mask.

"I would not dream of it. Mock Macalaurë, who was once the pride of Tirion's musical school? It is more than my life is worth to do that." The elf came up next to him, sitting down with crossed legs as though it were quite natural not to have a chair. There was a moment's silence then the elf shook his head "Forgive me, I haven't introduced myself, I am Laurion Tuilindo."

Maglor placed a hand on his heart and gave a seated bow "I am honoured to meet you."

The elf smiled "I rather think it is the other way around, as my father told me stories of your singing when I was a little elfling."

He'd caught some echo of resemblance in the elf's face and voice "You are Glorfindel's son?"

Tuilindo nodded "Born in Gondolin, and playmate to Ëarendil." Then he shook his head, with a very rueful expression on his face "Which wouldn't seem so strange, if I weren't so often considered of an age with Elrond's sons."

Maglor glanced at him then looked out over the valley again.

_So he does have sons. _The thought took some comprehension, Elrond had still been so young when he'd seen him in the throng at the end of the War of Wrath.

They lapsed back into companionable silence, so different from the stilted lack of talking that had carried through out the journey. Maglor felt at ease with this elf, though he didn't really understand why, they had little in common save a language and both having kin who had lived all their lives in the west. It was the camaraderie that allowed him to ask a question he wouldn't dare put even to Glorfindel or Elrond.

"How badly have I upset things down there?" He tilted his head into the valley.

Tuilindo raised an eyebrow "I presume you want truth not honey coated?

He simply stared him down for a moment, before realising he was being teased

"Not as badly a you'd think, most of the others aren't particularly bothered, or are hoping you'll teach them, I know at least three to put in there."

"But someone does."

"Don't mind Lindir, he's just jealous, and if professional jealously between musicians is anything like it is between sparring children, then he'd stay being jealous."

Maglor had to laugh at that, and he was surprised to find it was a proper laugh that came out "You and Ëarendil, yes? And for future reference it's far worse than that, because you don't depend on another musician to save your life." Quick as a snake, he snapped back to the subject that was nagging him "But he's not Teler blood, or Doriath Sinda?."

The golden haired elf paused "Not as far as I know, but I'm not certain it would have been mentioned if he was, we're expected to be Elves of Imladris first, our blood second. I'm not sure Attô's always very good at it, but I like it

"I would too, but it won't happen...What we did was unforgivable. I am one of the Dispossessed."

Tuilindo gave him a long look when he said that, then abruptly snapped his gaze to the valley as a brass bell began to ring "Dinner, no matter where you eat it. And a little bird mentioned that you were supposed to see Elrond today."

He sighed and there was a wry smile from the other elf.

* * *

"Good evening"

He half turned his head and sighed as he saw Faramir walking up to the haven "Good evening to you as well. Why are you out here in the cold."

Faramir bounded up the steps and idly perched himself on the rail, swinging his legs slightly until he balanced "I had intended to eat dinner with you, but Baingoldir cornered me, as I suspect he's been trying to do since before dawn yesterday."

He allowed himself a small, half teasing smile "What did he want?"

"For me to join with the other singers, he seems to think that with some training I'll be on their level." The Gondorian gave a small shake of his head "He must be young and unscarred to have that much optimism." Then he straightened "Aside from that, I came to see that all was well with you..."

Maglor watched as his protégée jumped down and walked towards him

"Where is your twinkle, Adûnathôr? Your merry laugh? Where is the Bard who told me stories when I was sick, even though it left his eyes shadowed when he spoke some of them? The minstrel who taught us all those songs and yowled along with my brother when his voice broke?"

"He is gone... he is dead." Something inside him snapped "Leave me alone!"

"_Eca cenienyallo Amburussayo! Heca!_" He was shouting now, screaming it.

Faramir fled, but not before giving him a look which showed deep wounds inside.

He crumpled back against the railing, only to spin around at sardonic clapping and a voice speaking in the old Quenya of his childhood

"You certainly know how to be confusing, if nothing else..."

He snarled silently at Glorfindel as the golden-haired elf approached "I was quite clear with him."

The elf raised a stern eyebrow "Where you? Screaming at him, it a language he can't understand is bad enough, but to call him by what is clearly an affectionate epessë when you're doing that..." The half-Vanya's eyes held no jest, they were cool and serious, almost angry.

Maglor turned away and walked from the haven, noting that there was no attempt to call him back.

* * *

He had no idea where he was walking, but was not surprised to end up on the same ledge as earlier. For a moment he leant out, looking not at the valley but straight down to the base of the cliff. It would be so easy, so quick in the end. _And it would be fitting..._

_A flickering cleft of fire, the quiet beg for forgiveness and he watched helpless as his only older brother, his one constant, threw himself off the rocky lip and into the inferno._

Shaking he stepped back from the cliff and unstrapped his harp case, pulling the precious instrument out. No he could not subject Elrond to the same as he had suffered. He crossed his legs, pressing his head to the wood of the harp as he raised his fingers.

* * *

Not even the better music in the _Pony_ had been like this. Artanáro found himself stopping and turning, lifting his eyes to the cliff in unison, unknown to him, with every other elf in the valley. Some who crossed the courtyard near him were frowning and he heard one whisper a questioning

"Which song is that?"

Somebody else immediately shushed the speaker for fear of drowning out the music and song. But after a few more bars one of the singers from the night they had arrived spoke in hushed and reverent tones

"The Noldolantë"

They stood in silence, more and more gathering in the courtyard, until they were pressed in a tight knot, or coming out onto balconies as Ëarendil's light shone on the valley, angling itself not to the main buildings, but up at the cliff... Where Macalaurë, pride of Tirion, sang once more.

* * *

**Translations**

**Quenya**

**_Eca cenienyallo=_ Be gone from my sight_  
_**

**_Heca_= Get away! (or other rude way of saying leave me alone)**

**Reviews?  
**


	10. Of before

**Breaking my rule again but it's nearly my birthday, so I thought I'd give you all a present. Thank you to everyone who reviewed.**

**If you haven't I'd advise you read _Of fosterlings and fosterers_ before this, it may just add a little extra to the end of the first part**

* * *

He had no real idea what made him slip out of his room and head for Elrond's study the next morning, unless it had been the slip of parchment pushed under his door, with both a message of support and, thankfully, a rough map. Still, he stared at the wooden door, he was here now, and as frightened as he was, could not be called a coward. He raised a fist and knocked.

"Enter"

He did so, quickly closing the door behind him and leaning against it. His foster son sat at the desk, head bowed over his work and quill scratic away.

"_Lúmë anda avánië"_

The Peredhel lifted his head, brief confusion evident in his eyes and Maglor realised he'd spoke aloud what he meant only to think.

"A long time of who's making?" There, a tiny smile that reminded him of the young elfling he'd adopted and raised.

When he replied he switched to Sindarin, as Elrond's keeping to the tongue had suggested he ought to "Mine, wholly and squarely for the latter age, I do not believe I would have been welcome in Lindon."

"In that you are probably right" Elrond rose to his feet, seeming far more an impressive lord and came to place his hands on Maglor's shoulders "But I would have welcomed you, as would a few others."

Maglor sighed "A few, a bare handful, perhaps. But as with here, I would have caused more contention than relief..." He drew a deep breath "Which is why I ask permission to leave."

Elrond swung away so quickly he nearly had to duck "Will you never change your tune, old harper? Will you not even alter chord?"

"Key" That stopped his foster son in his tracks and he was obliged to offer an explanation "You alter key, not chord."

For the first time that he knew Elrond made a dismissive gesture with one hand "You have a home here, for as long as our kind stay... Yet you won't take it." The half elf wheeled in his pacing "Well, hear me clearly Macalaurë son of Nerdanel, who I call Maglor, if you leave these walls, I will ride at your side."

He nodded "If you mean you wish me to travel south with you, I am willing to meet you at the gates."

"No Maglor" Elrond's eyes were stern "I mean what I said, _exactly_ what I said. Should you set foot or hoof beyond the valley I will be riding with you, wherever or whenever you choose to go."

He would have stumbled backward if he wasn't already up against the door, as slowly, what his foster son intended, sank like an arrow into his chest "You would leave all this, your home, your friends... Your family?" His incredulity was thick as treacle

"You, Elros and Maedhros were my first family, and you are the only one left of the trio."

He bowed his head at the remembered loss and stepped forward "I grieved when word came."

Elrond's teeth seemed gritted as he spoke "His ending was peaceable, for more than your brother's"

He nodded dully "Thus was the doom of Mandos on us. When... when were you told?"

"We did not need telling"

Maglor paused, his brain working sluggishly _But I did not use __Ósanwe__, nor did they know it, young as they were._

Then a half memory, an echo, stirred.

* * *

Elrond saw his heart-father's face go ashen as he understood.

When maglor's word's came, it seemed to be with great effort "You were there, you saw..." He broke of with a choked cry

Elrond nodded slowly "We knew that Maedhros at least would try to get the Silmarils back, whether you would be there was frankly a moot point. So we waited nearby, waited and watched." He took a breath "We followed you as you fled, Elros with Meadhros's track, I to yours. We followed you right to the cleft plain, hid in the tree line." He paused, waiting patiently.

"The cry"

"Yes"

"Who?"

"Elros" He shut his eyes briefly "I think I was too shocked to do anything but react harshly, and clamped my hand over his mouth. No.. I was afraid." He lifted his eyes to Maglor's "I did not recognise my sword teacher in the red headed elf who jumped in despair, and barely my harp teacher in the one who stood so stone-like beside. I saw two elves there yes, but they were Nelyofinwë and Kanofinwë."

And to his horror, he realised he had begun to cry, cry as he had longed to all those yeni ago, but had stopped himself. Then there were arms around him, hands with delicate fingers and a soft voice in his ear

"_Ai_, _Nandarollë_...cry your fill, I'm here."

* * *

Boromir jumped when someone tapped him on the shoulder and turning, found that he'd been quietly hemmed in by Legolas and Gimli

"Explain this to me, Boromir of Gondor. Maglor is supposedly a recluse, yet you recognised him almost at once and he clearly knows you and your kin well..."

There was quite literally no way of avoiding this one. "Yes I know him, as do Lothiriel and Faramir, but not as Maglor. Did none of your kin ever take other names when they travelled?"

Each shook their heads, their expressions clearly suggesting it would be dishonourable

"We knew a minstrel, a bard called Adunathor. He arrived in dol amroth the summer after our mother died, in the three weeks we spent there each year. He taught us to sing, and one of my cousions to when we two dragged our feet home, he'd be off wandering the shore, to come back next year,The afternoon we arrived."

Remarkably good timing" growled Gimli, clearly suspicious

Boromir chuckled "I agree, I must admit that I thought Uncle was in on it. But he was as shocked as any, apparently, when Adunathor failed to turn up. And as worried."

"And did you ask him outright?"

"I did" Thiri appeared behind the dwarf and Boromir breathed a sigh "Amrothos did much as you are doing now, and he answered truthfully, that he had never clapped eyes on our singer before he walked into the town, and that all he'd had was reports from the fishing villages, or lack of them that time." she bit her lip slightly.

"Tis strange for an elf to wander alone." Legolas was frowning

"No home, no kin or frineds left. Tis what Dwarves have done of a thime, find somewhereelse to start anew."

They all looked at Gimli in surprise and he muttered something under his breath, which not even Leglas could heard

"Save that a new home he..." Boromir stopped midsentence and they tilted their heads. There, very faint to his ears, was music. Harp music. A smile growing on his face he completed what he'd been saying "has found."

* * *

**Translations**

**Quenya**

**_Lúmë anda avánië =_ It has been a long time_  
_**

**_Ósanwe_= Exchange of thought (telepathy)**

**Reviews please**


	11. Music

**Thanks to _Kaisaan Greenleaf_,_ cai-ann, Lia Whyteleafe, sayu-chan93 _and _faye50free_ for reviewing. First batch of essays are in, so guess what, you get a chapter.**

**Enjoy it**

* * *

How different two halves of a day could be, Artanáro mused. This morning seemed to be identical to the days preceding it. Macalaurë absent, Elrond silent, everyone else on tiptoe and worrying. Now his companion sat down in the benches, having made one final stand to Elrond in refusing to take a seat at the High Table. All around him were the Edain, and many of the younger elves, smiling and talking. Catching Elrond's eye as the dinner began to break up he wandered down to join the group.

* * *

"You must have done some singing, how else did your horse get a new shoe?"

He met Éowyn's eyes, noting how well matched she was for Faramir. Kind, but with a knife sharp wit, and a temper too. Wonderful for a friend, but you didn't want to be on the wrong side of her. Mind you, he wouldn't want to face a riled Faramir either.

With a mock abashed smile he conceded the point "There you have caught me. I sang in Bree, at the Pony."

"I wish I could have heard that, Barliman must have been chuffed." Aragorn grumbled slightly, but there was a fond smile when he mentioned the innkeeper.

"So what did you sing?" Boromir lent forward from his place further up the table.

He shrugged "Some little ditties, the _Lay of Tuor and Gondolin_..."

A voice in Sindarin interrupted him "What about that last one, that had them all chorusing along?"

He tried to bluff "I ended with _Gondolin_."

Artanáro shook his head and sat down, a dangerously Finrod-like glint in his eye.

In the background Aragorn had translated for the others, now Thiri spoke up, using Sindarin still "How did it go?"

Maglor surreptitiously looked away, still listening. At first his companion protested, pointing out he hadn't understood the words and he thought he'd escaped, but then the other elf started humming the refrain. Of course, he noted abstractly; it had to be a note perfect rendition, didn't it?

* * *

Boromir choked and spluttered, inhaling the mouthful of wine he had meant to swallow as laughter burst out of his chest. His vision stuttered and blurred with tears as his lungs heaved desperately for air against the laughs.

"You... you... didn't."

On the other side of their musician Thiri had got the giggles so badly that she threatened to fall off the bench, her hands pressed to her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle the noise.

* * *

Slowly, Maglor looked around, meeting Faramir's incredulous eyes. The auburn-haired captain stared a moment longer, apparently oblivious to the hysterics surrounding him. Then he too began to laugh. "He did, he did. Oh _Alataquinga_, he did!"

He started at the Quenya word, recognising it to refer to Orome's bow. Desperate now he looked about, only to see the Edain introduced as Aragorn grinning his ears off, and in the distance, Elrond pointedly ignoring him.

One of the other elves nearby spoke up as Éomer thumped a still coughing Boromir on the back. "I do not understand the jest..."

But his words were lost when Thiri finally found some un-laughed breath, and her tongue with it "Well you'll have to come back with us now, else I'll be telling Atto."

He smiled sweetly at her "Would that be any use when I would be far away?"

"He'd probably send the Elwings after you." Aragorn spoke in a very low voice, moving to be closer so none of the other elves would hear.

Maglor paused for a minute, recognising the generic Common term for the most devoted and driven of the Swan-Knights, more properly called the _Sarte Alquar_, The Prince's personal guard "Ah, yes... _devin." _

He looked over at the elf who had spoken earlier "To you, young one, that song can be seen as rather, ah saucy, if you know a sailor's speech. I was forbidden to sing it in Imrahil's domains or within earshot of his children. Indeed, Imrahil phrased it to be a blanket ban on my singing of it at all... Hence..." And there he stopped, seeing comprehension in the other's eyes. Instead he leant over to give first Faramir, then Thiri, gentle cuffs over their heads, switching back to Common as he spoke "Quiet you two"

"I cannot believe you Adûnathôr." Boromir had finally stopped coughing "I just cannot believe you..."

He gave a depreciating shrug "As long as your uncle is out of earshot, I can presume I'm safe."

Anyone paying attention would have noticed a shift in his eyes, a flash of pain and hopelessness so quickly gone you wondered if it even existed. But then he glinted again "Besides I miss my guess if you would not love to keep a secret from him."

He looked from one to another, gaining a nod and a smile which occasionally verged on a grin. Only Aragorn made an attempt to look stern

"I'm not sure, as king, that I can officially allow such a deception to take place."

Maglor sighed and lowered his head in a dog-like submission

"However, what Elessar doesn't know won't hurt him, and the last time I checked the court rankings, Estel owed no fealty to Tar-Elessar."

It took one moment for Maglor to understand what he was hearing, another to pinch himself mentally before he looked over at the Adan, having to make sure he saw what was actually in front of his eyes, and not what his mind believed was there

"_Hantanyel_... Estel" He decided at the last moment not to use the first name that had come to mind and tongue, realising it would be jumping deep into a dark pool that he didn't know. Worth it, if you were being chased by Morgoth's minions, but not now. Better to stick with what he knew.

* * *

"_-yel_?" Glorfindel's voice almost made him jump but he forced himself to stay still "And what else were you going to call him?"

I spook at shadows now he thought sadly, but kept his face and tone slightly flippant "Is it your Vanya blood that makes you so nosy, oh Laurefindel?"

The other elf chuckled as they walked out side by side "You remember the trouble that caused, the two of us having similar names?"

He nodded slightly absent-mindedly, "Especially once I started refusing to answer to _Kanafinwë_... or it would have done, had things been different."

They both fell silent, a memorial silence, for Glofindel had picked up that what was said was as close as Maglor could come to speaking of Losgar without cracking into pieces.

There was a long silence and he let Glofindel lead him wherever he would wish to go. Unsurprisingly he found himself deep in the gardens, in a thick grove of trees.

The half-Vanya sat down and stretched his arms behind his head as he lent against a trunk "So, have we any likely musicians in our household?"

He shook his head in mock exasperation "Those who are likely are already playing Laurefindel, and I'm not going to interfere." As the other elf stared at him he found himself continuing "If, and only if, an elf comes to me of their own free will and asks me to teach them, I will... Only then. I do not wish to put Lindir any-more out of place."

"He'll learn not to get pretentious of his position then" Glorfindel bent his head back against the trunk "It's funny, he was always more like this when-ever Elrond was absent, now we end up in this situation."

He changed the subject, trying to gauge this unwanted opposition "He clearly isn't fond of Noldor, but what's his opinion of Daeron?"

There was a long pause before Glorfindel answered "I've never asked."

He let his breath out with a hiss of exasperation. Was there no way of making friends with this elf-harper?

"Then I shall just keep my head down and my strings quiet until he knows I am not a threat."

He felt Glorfindel's eyes on him again, but ignored them, pointedly lifting his eyes to the branches and starting to hum. After a little, and almost without his wanting it, his humming molded to words

"_Proud were we seven_

_and our father fine_

_Swearing our oaths_

_to live or to die._

_Alqualondë laid to waste_

_Doriath scorched, Sirion plundered_

_Why, why did we pledge in such haste?_

_Alas, my heart wonders_

_What might have been_

_Had we paused and heeded,_

_The words of those wiser than our rashness_

_The Doom was meant, for Fëanor's host_

_Yet many others it has taken_

_For what?_

_For three jewels_

_Jewels crafted by hands..._

_Some called them greatest ever made_

_But they are wrong_

_The greatest jewels_

_Cannot be crafted in a smith's forge_

_Not even by Aulë_

_The greatest Jewels_

_Live in the heart..."_

He fell out of tune, speaking on a soft breath "Truth, honor..."

True to form Laurefindel supplied the one he'd wished to leave unspoken "Love..." There was a long pause, and when the golden haired elf spoke, his voice was sad "Your joy has become you penance Macalaurë , for I have not heard a happy song from that harp for many ages now"

He nodded silently, rising to his feet and leaning his forehead against the tree, closing his eyes. His breathing was rough and he forced it to steady. But their images flashed before his closed lids. Eight Ellyn, two Ellyth. Six dead, all lost...

* * *

"Why that epessë, why Ambarussayo?"

The question dragged him back to now, but he was confused until he remembered their last encounter. He turned and slid down the trunk till he sat on the grass, legs crossed under him "That is what he is, a red-head. And he reminds me of them, always..."

Glorfindel's eyes were soft and the half-Vanya smiled "Is he brother, or is he son?"

His voice was heartfelt when he responded, not even trying to fathom out a decent answer, and his tongue commended it by lapsing into the old speech "He is both, Laurë... He is both."

* * *

**Translations**

**Sindarin**

**_devin_= I yeild**

**Quenya**

**_Alataquinga_= Great Bow (I think)**

**_Sarte Alquar_= Loyal Swans**

**_Hantanyel_= I thank you (formal version)**

**The _Sarte Alquar_ are invented by me, as is the song. See you in May everyone**...

**Reviews?**


	12. White Stuff

**Well, I'm back. Uni finished a fortnight ago and this chapter has taken a week to finish. I'm writing about winter and meanwhile it's blazing sun outside. As requested by _elrondperedhel_ , a name checklist for the two who are being confusing**

**Maglor=Macalaure, Adûnathôr, Feanorion (occasionally)  
**

**Artanaro= Erenion, Gil-galad, Rodnor.**

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed**

* * *

It was very white. At first Bergil wondered if he'd fallen asleep with his sheet over his head, but a touch with his hand told him that he hadn't. Why then, did the outline of the window have such a funny colour? There was a large patch of grey, darker than gondorian armour, more like Firefoot's coat, but without the pattern of dapples. But about three-quarters of the way down it changed to a white, a white which his eyes told him was actually closer to him than the grey of the sky.

His nose, and his ears, informed him that it was even colder this morning that it had been when they went to bed last night.

Curiosity told him to get up and see what was causing the discrepancy between grey and white, but common sense told him to stay put and warm. That was shattered and he was just rolling out from under the covers when Elfwine burst in, leaping onto the bed and tumbling them both to the floor puppy style

"Snow, snow, snow" His Rohirric accent was so thick from excitement that Bergil found him repeating what he'd heard to check he'd understood

"Snow?"

"The on the window, silly..Snow."

Just as quickly the boy was gone again. He reluctantly kicked himself free of the blankets which had cocooned him, shivering as the chill, even without a wind, bit through his shirt and breeches. It had never, ever, been this cold in Gondor as far as he could remember, certainly not in Minas Tirith or Ithilien, and his father who was from the northern part had never mentioned anything called snow.

_But then you're not in Gondor any-more, it is leagues and leagues to the south._

Huddling in the blanket as if it were a cloak he skipped across the floor from spot to spot, trying to keep his feet off the cold wood as much as possible until he reached the window-hole. The white, wasn't, as he'd thought, a solid lump like a stone, it looked more like a pile of sugar. Very tentatively he reached out to poke it with one finger, using the other hand to hold on to the blankets.

"Eeek"

A mixture of laughs and squeals broke the morning peace. Arwen lifted her head from the pillow, enough to note that the ledge had grown a white covering overnight, then glanced at her still sleeping husband. Had Estel been awake she had no doubt he would be out of reach as fast as a fleeing deer on seeing her face...but now? She crept out of her bed, ignoring the slight chill and scooped up as much snow as she could carry in cupped hands, carrying it carefully back to the bed.

"Estel, _ loss_"

He shifted and half opened his eyes "Hmmm?"

She'd brought her hands close to him as she'd spoken, now she shifted them, to tip the cold snow neatly onto him.

Then she bolted, conceding to herself, if not to him, that she had a fair idea where their son's mischief might have come from.

* * *

Breakfast seemed to be a situation of two halves, or maybe three (and Glorfindel wasn't going to fathom over his mathematics regarding that.) Some seemed frankly unbothered; most of the elves fitted into that group. Some, Aragorn, Arwen and those with connections to Rohan, were bolting their breakfasts as quickly as they dared without spilling anything, clearly inteneding to get out there as soon as they had eaten and were properly dressed. That just left the Gondorians, who looked rather cold, and distinctly unsure of themselves.

His ears were sharp enough to hear Tuilindo down amongst them "Why so slow? Aren't you excited about the snow?"

Faramir twitched in something which wasn't a nod or a shake "I don't know what to make of it, it will be harder to walk in, but better for tracking."

He watched as Tuilindo set down his spoon and looked properly at Faramir "That's all you look at if from, a warrior's perspective? Don't you remember playing in snow when you were a child?"

Faramir gave a small smile "I've never seen it before in my life."

Even Elrond lifted his head from his meal at that, frowning slightly, but then he nodded to himself, comprehension in his eyes.

His son, on the other hand, looked completely perplexed, but dropped the subject. To anyone else that would look like tact or hunger winning out over confusion, but his sharp eyes caught Éomer administering a sharp nudge and a murmur in Rohirric.

* * *

It was only the Edain who gathered in the entrance hall, none of the elves had elected to join them. For that Faramir was rather grateful, he felt rather more like a straw stuffed scarecrow than either a lord or a ranger, wearing three shirts, two pairs of socks, a cloak and lined boots that Aragorn had dug out from the bottom of a chest, with the explanation they were some of his old winter-wear. To put it simply, he felt quite daft. Boromir seemed of a similar inclination, but, then his brother wasn't of the inclination to move fluidly and silently through trees with little effort. As he'd been thinking he automatically followed as almost last in line when Aragorn led them down the steps to the snow filled courtyard, only to abruptly wake up as he sank knee deep and became all-but immobile. Glancing about it seemed that only he was in quite such severe difficulties, though Boromir was struggling. Eldarion, however, who sheould by rights be up to his chest, was scampering in only ankle depth.

"If you step right you shouldn't go down that far." Éowyn had trudged her way back to him

Faramir in deference to the situation, borrowed one of his brother's mannerisms and rolled his eyes "Just how do I 'step right'?"

"stamp down on each step and the snow should stay firm."

He tried it, rather tentatively, and found it to be true, leaving him with snow only three-quarters of the way up his calves "How did you know that?"

His wife smiled "We got snow every winter in Rohan, you learn the tricks to cope..."

"And it's a vast improvement on sea storms, I can vouch." Lothiriel seemed to almost be dancing, though it was so unlike the normal movement that Faramir had to laugh "Far more fun."

As if to prove the point, Éomer suddenly went sprawling with both Boromir and his wife on top of him, forcing him into a deep snowdrift that had blown in one corner and attempting to bury him in it. By element of surprise they appeared to succeed for a moment, but then Éomer kicked free and scooped up a handful of snow, lobbing it in their general direction. But it missed, spectacularly.

* * *

"Who threw that?!"

Elrond turned from his work to look down at the courtyard. All the Edain and his daughter were down there, and he watched innocent expressions ripple over their faces as the translation from angry Sindarin was passed back. Erestor, on one of the covered walkways, was glaring back at them. It didn't take much, given that there was still snow on his robes, to guess what had happened.

"Estel? Arwen? " The councillor's voice was snapping sharp

"Why are you looking at _us_?" Both his younger children, he could tell, had not been the culprits of this mischief. There was a long moment of silence before Éomer stepped forward. He couldn't quite hear what was said but his petinence, and the fact he was implicating his wife and her kin in the scuffle was perfectly clear by body langauge alone.

Erestor seemed to think the explanation decent enough as he delivered one final glare that encompassed the entire group before stalking off.

Elrond saw the whole group physically relax with relief, then Éomer stooped and patted together a snowball which he then, with absolute deliberation, threw at Boromir.

The Captain of Gondor staggered slightly when it hit, but kept his feet, a quite remarkable act when Elrond remembered he wasn't used to snow. Most surprisingly, he didn't react but for a simple nod, and Elrond realised this was not so much the first shot of a battle as the settling of a score.

However, when Éowyn followed her brother's actions, the outcome was decidedly less accepted. Boromir shook his head slightly like a bemused bull, but then threw back. In short order snowballs were flying in all directions, making him grateful he was well above the general range. Some were not so lucky.

* * *

Faramir cringed as he saw his snowball go flying a foot to the left of it's intended target, only to thud into the side of an unsuspecting Glorfindel. He froze and waited for another shout to bring them all to a halt, only to be bowled over by a well aimed missile. He blinked as he picked himself slowly up, finding the elf already nearby.

"Were you more horrified that it would hit me, or that you'd missed?"

He stared startled, and was only witness to a large snowball thumping Éowyn on the back.

However it was Glorfindel who was suddenly shaking snow out of his hair and glaring, shouting something in Quenya.

Tuilindo, who had appeared from no-where, gave him a clue as to what had been said with his reply "Did anyone mention sides?"

Faramir turned his attention to an inattentive Aragorn rather than get caught in a debate.

Apparently sides were formed, as they rapidly found themselves banding together against an onslaught of elven accuracy and ability to move on top of snow. Eldarion's climbing to launch attacks from above helped to even up the odds slightly, as did the immediate defection to them of not only Tuilindo but Elladan and Elrohir. Still, if indeed it was a competition, Aragorn was willing to concede, with a smile, that it was a tie. And by the end there were, after all, not distinct elves and humans to be recognised, but only around thirty snow covered two-legged shapes in the courtyard.

Given the steely looks in certain eyes there would be strategy talks for much of the late afternoon and evening, in preparation for another bout, which they would win. Pride aside, there was only laughter. Snow, he decided, was something it would be impossible to not enjoy.

* * *

**Translations**

**_ loss_= Snow**

**Reviews please, next chapter should be quicker (it's three quarters written)**


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